


Coffee Stains and Cigarettes

by cellard00rs



Series: CSAC series [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Blood, Cigarettes, Coffee, College AU, Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Fighting, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Sex, Meta, Modern Stans AU, Past Child Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Incest, Smoking, coffee shop AU, hipster AU, mentions of kinks, some crossover elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:26:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 190,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ford attends West Coast Tech, Stan tags along. Modern Time Stans AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ford flips thorough some of the highlighted texts he has laid out before him. The lighting in the coffeehouse isn’t very conducive to studying, but he promised Stan he’d be here. Besides, Fidds is working the counter tonight and he makes the best cup of espresso in the joint. He scribbles some notes in the margins of his already overstuffed notebook and scratches at his forehead thoughtfully. He’s pretty sure the math here is correct, but it’s hard to say – but then, that’s what theoretical physics is – theoretical.

“Another cup?” Fidds asks, holding out a small china mug. Ford nods and grabs it, “I take it Toby’s not here.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been slipping me free drinks for about an hour now.”

Fidds grins, “Maybe. But honestly, even if the boss man was here, I’d get you something to drink. After all, you pull the occasional shift here. Hell, I’d pull less if I didn’t have to pay off these damned college loans.”

Ford rolls his eyes, “Hey, we barely get by as it is.”

Fidds laughs and shakes his head, “You ever get tired of saying ‘we’. I swear, I think you say it far more than ‘I’.”

Ford shrugs, “It’s what we’ve both done our whole lives.”

And it’s true. Ford and Stan have been joined at the hip since birth – they are, after all, twins. When Ford got offered a full ride to West Coast Tech on a scholarship his only demand had been that Stanley join him. No way was he going to leave his bro in Jersey with their folks. Stan had naturally been jubilant but then came the very delicately placed questions. Was Ford sure he didn’t mind Stan tagging along? Was Ford okay with the fact that Stan wasn’t going to his nerd college? That Stan would have to find some source of income? Was Stan going to drag him down and yes, he never actually asked this question exactly, but Ford heard it in his brother’s tone.

Stan acts the role of someone super confident to the ‘T’, but Ford knows better. Knows Stan is unsure and he knows exactly where it stems from. Hence why he refused to leave Stan behind in Jersey with their folks. It wasn’t that their parents don’t try – they do. But neither one of them has ever seemed to know what to do. And then it was as if the clouds parted and God handed down a golden ticket to give them a way out. Granted, the ticket had Ford’s name on it, but Ford refused to leave Stan behind. They were a ‘we’, dammit. They would be a ‘we’ until the very end. So Ford convinced him to come along and now they are nicely ensconced on the west coast – miles and miles from the east.

Ford had been assigned a dorm room when he first arrived and this is where he met Fidds. It was also where he snuck Stanley in until such and such time as they’d been caught out. This led to a dicey situation wherein the school board threatened suspension, but considering Ford’s stellar conduct and overall grades he was instead given a mere slap on the wrist. Yes, they had to move off campus, but Ford was still allowed to attend the school. And honestly, that was all that really mattered to him.

And Fidds, in a surprising move, chose to join them. As such, the three formed a trinity for a while – living together, working together, and it was all pretty awesome. Until, of course, Fidds found a girl. Then it was all about her and the next thing Ford and Stan know, he’s ducking out all the time and practically living with her. Not that Ford isn’t happy for him – Fidds is a romantic soul and love suits him.

Ford and Stan, however, continue to only have one another and sometimes Ford worries about this. Are they too close? He shakes his head to himself, not wanting to fall down that rabbit hole again. Instead he looks at Fidds, “And might I ask where your lady love is tonight?”

Fidds grins, bashful, “Work. But I’ll be going to her place when I get off, if’n that’s okay.”

“Fidds, you’re a big boy. You can make your own decisions. You don’t need my approval.”

“I know, I know. But I feel bad I ain’t been hangin’ out with you fellas as much.”

“Hey, I see you plenty in class and frankly, buddy, that’s where I need you the most. Professor Tanenbaum’s course is a killer.”

Fidds puffs out a breath, “Yeah. Swear that woman _feeds_ on test papers. Can you believe that mess she assigned us on Monday? I mean, I love quantum theory as much as the next person, but her requirements for that essay were insane!”

Ford nods in agreement when suddenly his cell phone buzzes. He picks it up and idly touches the screen. He finds a text from Stan: **Startin’ soon. Nervous.**

He feels his lips twitch as he quickly messages back: _Don’t be. You’ll be great._

**Text right.**

_I am._

**No, u type 2 much.**

_What are you implying?_

**6er, u killin me.**

Fidds looks at him with a frown, “What’s up?”

“Eh, just Stan bitching at me about how I send him texts. He hates when I type out whole words. Always wants me to use the letter ‘u’ for ‘you’ and things like that – always wants shorthand.”

Fidds blinks, expression nonplussed, “You shorthand your texts to me.”

He gets a wicked grin in return, “Yeah, I know. I just do it to Stan to rile him up.”

Fidds rolls his eyes, “You two. Christ. Well, I’ve gotta get back to the counter. You need anything else, you let me know.”

Ford gives him a sharp nod but his eyes are back on his cell, waiting to see if Stan will message him again. Sure enough: **Don’t know if I can do this.**

_You’ll be fine. I’m out here and I’m rooting for you._

**What if no 1 claps?**

_I’ll clap._

**Gr8. 1 person clap. That’s not sad n loserish.**

_You are not a loser and my clap should be the only one that matters, right?_

Ford looks at this text before sending it, wondering if it’s okay to send. It seems a bit much. He can’t put his finger quite on why, but he eyes it for a while, feeling apprehensive. He should just delete it and think up something better. But he takes a deep breath and clicks ‘send’ anyway, because – well, because he can’t think of anything else. And he _should_ be the only one that matters…right?

God, talk about conceited. He snorts at himself and sips his espresso. The surge of heat in his body convinces him to take his beanie off and stick it in the pocket of his black pants. He sits there, fingers idly tapping at the table as the lights dim. There’s a cleared out space in the coffee shop and Shandra walks out, microphone in hand, “Hello and welcome ladies and gentlemen to our Friday night jam session at The Press Room. Just as a reminder, our pumpkin spice lattes are now in season and are being offered for twenty percent off tonight for those with a college ID. Also, we have a new vanilla cranberry biscotti that is out of this world.”

This is met with a weak smattering of applause and Shandra grins, “Now, for our first performer tonight. Please put your hands together and give a warm welcome to Mr. Mystery.”

Stan comes out from the backroom, a guitar slung over one shoulder and a harmonica kit resting around his neck, the instrument near his mouth. He’s wearing a red thermal and jeans and his overly long hair is sticking out at weird angles, clearly showing he messed with it a lot before coming out. Everyone claps (especially Ford, who also makes sure to whistle) as Stan sets up his gear and sits on a high, rickety looking stool near a stationary microphone. Stan clears his throat and while Ford sees the nervous light in his brother’s eyes his voice is the complete opposite, “Hey, how you all doin’ tonight? Ladies, you are all looking fine and gentlemen, you are looking lucky to be surrounded by such fine ladies.”

There’s a low hum of laughter and Stan laughs the loudest, clearly trying his best to get over his nerves, “Before I start, a quick joke-”

 _Oh god_ , Ford thinks as he covers his face with his hands, _oh god no, no…Stan, no jokes…_

“My girlfriend still misses me…but her aim is gettin’ better!” he pauses as no one laughs, “Her aim is gettin’ better!” Still no laughter, “Y'see, it’s-it’s funny because relationships are terrible.”

Someone coughs.

Ford peeks out through his fingers and Stan tugs at his collar, “Hoooookay, well, um – now on to some music. You guys oughta love this – I call this song, ‘Whiskey Eyes’.”

Stan starts strumming the guitar and people perk up, bad joke forgotten. Ford looks around and grins. He makes sure to look directly at Stan and their eyes meet as Stan begins singing. Honestly, his voice is too deep and too warbly, but the way he sings and what he sings about…it’s always resonated with Ford. And his instrument skills more than make up for it. The sounds he wrings out of the guitar and harmonica respectively make Ford feel transcendent.

And Ford rests his head in his hands, watching Stan, blissfully unaware that he has the dopiest look on his face. Stan finishes that song up and transitions into the next, this one entitled ‘Afraid’, following that with ‘Forbidden’, and then finally ‘Nerd Next to Me’, which Ford smiles at, because he knows this song is actually about him. And the response to Stan’s performance is pretty damn positive.

Ford sees people bobbing their heads and tapping their feet and he feels a burst of pleasure, proud of his brother. Stan always seems to think he’s a failure at everything, but he’s actually pretty talented when it comes to music. It’s not something he’s interested in making a career on, but he’s earning some extra pay tonight on top of his usual. He also works for Toby, although he works more than Ford does.

He works here at The Press Room but he also pulls various construction jobs. Many is the night Stan's come home exhausted and sweaty, covered in a layer of soot and Ford has had to shove him into the shower and forced him to eat a well balance meal. Not that Stan hasn’t returned the favor, dragging Ford away from his schoolwork. Honestly, Ford would stay buried in it and not shower or eat for days if it wasn’t for Stan’s intervention.

But this is also because Ford plans on trying to go from undergrad to PhD three years ahead of schedule and if he wants to do this he needs to focus. To his mind, the sooner he’s out of school, the sooner he and Stan can move on to their next adventure. After all, he doesn’t expect to stay here forever. Stan has had yet to find the thing he excels at and Ford wants that for his brother. He wants it so desperately that he’s willing to try and get a quicker move on with their lives.

He’s been thinking about researching anomalies full time and there’s this great spot in Oregon he thinks will be perfect for them. If he can just get a good grant…

“Why, if it isn’t Stanford!” Preston Northwest remarks dryly and Ford has to withhold an annoyed groan. Preston Northwest is just about the last person he wants to see tonight. Preston draws out a seat at the table, “Mind if I sit?”

“It’s a free country,” Ford mumbles and he looks at Preston with narrowed eyes, “Why are you here?”

“As you said: free country.”

“Yeah, but –ah – this doesn’t seem your kind of place.”

“That is correct, it would appear that I am lowering myself in this moment, but I happen to have a date with Shandra later tonight. I figured I’d sit through this freak show and then we’d have a lot to talk about on our evening out.”

Ford scowls. He’s not necessarily surprised Shandra agreed to go out with Preston but honestly – she can do better. Preston is currently riding through West Coast Tech on his Daddy’s money. As far as Ford can tell, Preston is pretty much _buying_ a diploma. He’s hardly ever seen him on campus, much less in a classroom. Yet somehow he always manages to show up when it’s the least convenient, ready to nettle you with his very presence – like a living canker sore.

He certainly seems to be set on this course now, as he watches Stan and crosses his arms, “I see your boyfriend is performing.”

“Stanley is my _brother_ , Preston.”

“Hmm, he can be both. From what I understand, that’s not that uncommon in that backwoods place you two come from.”

Ford bites his bottom lip, hands clenching into fists and he tries to control his temper, because really? What is he going to do? Instead he breathes in deeply, “Is there something you need from me or-?”

“No, I just wanted to be up close and in person to watch you squirm. After all, that buffoon of yours is making quite the ass of himself.”

Ford’s feels his blood pressure spike, “Stan is doing a great job!”

“He sounds like a sentient rock tumbler.”

Ford picks up his espresso and takes a long sip of it, trying to lose himself in its dark flavor, hoping Preston will buzz off. No dice. Preston leers at him, “A rock tumbler that’s professing its love for you.”

“That’s not what he’s doing!”

“Please, every song has been about you!”

This is met with an incredulous laugh, “Yeah, right!”

Preston rolls his eyes, “Do you even _listen_ to the lyrics of these songs?”

“Every one!” Ford argues, “And none of them are about me! Okay, yes, ‘Nerd Next to Me’ is, but the rest-!” And then he stops, a thought occurring, “Hey, I thought you just got here.”

“Oh no, I wandered in right when your lover’s show started. And I assure you, every song is about your torrid, incestual, co-dependent love for one another. Or, at least, his love for you.”

A few of the lyrics from Stan’s various songs sound in Ford’s head and he thinks over them with a frown.

_Your dark eyes meeting mine and never seeing me, I’m so close, so there, but I’ll never get anywhere, not with you – never with you…_

_It’s wrong and it’s bad and we shouldn’t but oh man, what I wouldn’t give, to have you, to have you…_

_Born together, die apart, I can’t stand the thought. It breaks my heart. Someday you’ll leave and I’ll have to let you go and the worst of all is that you’ll never know, you’ll never know…_

And Preston is…he’s crazy. Right? I mean, some of the lyrics could be kind of...suggestive. but there’s no way in hell they’re about him. They-they can’t be. Stan just…just wrote these songs. No real reason, no real thought. He’s always said that when inspiration strikes he just…writes. And yes, Ford has asked the origins of some of the songs before and yes, Stan’s been vague about it, but to think that he…

Ford finishes off his espresso and gets to his feet, glaring at Preston, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, yes – you keep telling yourself that, Fordsy.”

“Don’t call me that!” Ford hisses and Preston holds up his hands in mock surrender. Ford goes to the counter and Fidds senses something is up, “You okay, buddy?”

Ford manages a weak nod, “Yeah, yeah. I’m-I’m fine.”

“You want another espresso?”

His fists unclench as he shoves one sweaty hand through his brown mop of hair. He pulls out his beanie and slips it back on as he answers, “Nah, not if I want to keep my skin on. Think I’ve had enough caffeine for the night.”

“How’s about a lemon tea, then? Made it myself. Just like my Momma taught me.”

“Sounds good,” Ford returns weakly and Fidds offers him the tea. It’s cold and crisp and Ford sips at it slowly, waiting for Preston to fuck off away from his table. But Preston is clearly having too much fun riling Ford up, so he doesn’t move. He just sits there serenely, waiting to bug him more. As such, Ford sticks by the counter and idly chats with Fidds when he’s not busy.

Stan’s set finishes up and he gets a wild ovation. Ford offers some himself, but it’s not as boisterous as he initially planned for it to be. He’s still lost in thought and his drink is almost done, his attention on Fidds when he hears a loud crash behind him. He turns to see Stan fighting Preston. They’ve knocked over the coffee table Ford had been sitting at – sending his textbooks, cue cards, and notebooks to the floor – all of it spilling across the ground in a messy splash.

Stan has a firm grip on Preston’s collar and is jerking him around and Preston is trying to land a few hits but to no avail. Stan is bigger and stronger and certainly more pissed off. His fist meets with Preston’s jaw, a loud cracking sound resounding and then a thicker smacking one as Stan hits him in the gut and some girl is screaming as Ford runs over. He grabs Stan and tries to drag him off the other man.

“You Neanderthal!” Preston moans, clutching his chin, “I think you broke my jaw!”

“I’ll break your whole fuckin’ face, Northwest!” Stan snarls and Ford is struggling to hold him back, his brother a damn powerhouse as he shouts, “Stanley! Stanley! Stop it! Knock it off!”

Preston wipes a trickle of blood away from his mouth, sneering, “That’s right – listen to your little bitch.”

“What the fuck did you say?! I’ll tear your goddamn head OFF!” Stan shouts, fingers like claws as he reaches out for Preston and Fidds has come into the picture. He’s helping Ford push Stan away and Shandra’s gone to Preston’s side. Preston is spouting out about how he’s going to sue and Stan’s goading him on – telling him to go ahead and try it even as he’s working to get free of both Ford and Fidds so he can keep fighting. They manage to ease Stan into the backroom and then out the back door. Once they’re in the alley behind the building, Fidds looks chagrined as he says, “I better get back in there. Try ‘n settle things.”

“Yeah, yeah. You go.” Ford mutters and Fidds leaves the Pines siblings behind him. Stan, now released from Ford and Fidds hold, is pacing back and forth and cursing a vicious blue streak under his breath. He kicks out at the nearby dumpster and Ford shakes his head, "Have you lost your mind? What on earth-?”

“I saw him!” Stan hisses, “I saw him talking to you and your fuckin’ face, Ford! It was like watching a flower wither up and die in front of me! What the hell did he say to you?”

“N-nothing.”

“Bullshit!”

“Stan – it was nothing. Certainly nothing to attack him over!”

“Son of a bitch ruined my show,” Stan spits, “I finished – barely – because when I looked up and he was there and – _your face_ , Ford.”

Ford swallows, “I’m sure you’re overreacting.”

“No! No, he made you look…you didn’t see it! Your face-!”

“Stan, we’re not kids anymore. You can’t just rough up any idiot who talks shit to me. This isn’t like bullies on the playground. We’re adults now. He could sue.”

“He can blow me!”

“Stanley…”

“No, serious. I am so done with Northwest! He’s been giving you shit ever since we got here!”

This is true. Preston is part of a special elite set of students – yes, his money bought him into it – but he's there and Ford is part of it as well. Ford, however, got there on his own educational merits. Still, when they met, Preston zeroed in on Ford’s ‘freak hands’. Of course, he's also been bitter because Ford is considered by many of the faculty to be a golden student and Preston hoped to hold that title for himself.

But it isn't something that can be so easily gained via monetary contributions and, as such, he's had a long history of giving Ford a hard time. He's called him ‘Fordsy’ before, he's needled him before. And Ford's always done his best to brush it off. But he's also voiced these issues to Stan and clearly Stan let them build up inside of him until tonight where he just…exploded.

But as far as Ford is concerned, it's still unnecessary, “Stanley, I’m a grown up. I can handle myself. Now, I’m sorry if I had some-some expression that upset you and that you felt damaged your performance, but I think you did an amazing job.”

Stan breathes out heavily, still pacing and Ford continues, trying his best to calm him, “Before your, ah, confrontation with Preston - people were clapping and having a good time! You’ve always been so worried about playing for an audience, but you did great tonight.”

“I-I did, didn’t I?”

Ford nods, “You really did.”

Stan chews on his bottom lip then hisses, because it’s been slightly damaged since the fight. Preston got in a few good licks. None as good as the ones Stan delivered, but enough to wound him a little and Ford sighs. He goes over to Stan and takes his face in his hands, “Looks like you might have a fat lip, tomorrow.”

“I always have a fat lip.”

“Shut up,” Ford chuckles and he lets Stan’s face go to take hold of his hands. He inspects Stan’s bruised and bloody knuckles when Stan asks, “What did he say to you?”

Ford looks up and Stan is…close.

Ford hadn’t even noticed.

They’re in one another’s personal space…less than inches away. Ford looks into his eyes and hears Preston’s words:

_Every song is about your torrid, incestual, co-dependent love for one another._

He swallows and feels his heart skip a beat. Stan’s eyes are…brown. And, okay, yes – this is a dumb thought. Stan’s eyes have always been brown. But Ford’s never noticed how brown before. How deep. Like the espresso he drank earlier – warm and thrilling and making his nerves jump. And what Preston said rings again:

_Or, at least, his love for you._

No, no – that’s…nuts. Ford shakes his head and offers a weak smile, “It's nothing. Just the normal crap he always says.”

Stan harrumphs and it’s clear he doesn’t believe Ford, but that he’s willing to let it slide for now. Ford releases his hands and sighs, “We should probably go back inside, gather up our stuff and go home.”

Stan gives a curt nod and the brothers start walking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHELP - Looks like I have 2 ongoing series now. How'd this happen, again? Warning for smoking and mentions of sex in this chapter.

Stanley stands out on the balcony of their apartment and overlooks the city down below. They’re on the seventh floor and therefore they have a pretty fantastic view, even if it is a bitch to get up to sometimes. The elevator is out of order more than half the time, and when it is operational it's full of people. Which normally leaves the stairs. ALL those stairs.

Just thinking of it causes him to feel breathless, which is ironic as he's currently taking a deep drag of his cigarette. He watches the smoke slowly curl away into the dark night sky. He puts the cigarette back in his mouth but hisses a little, drawing it out again to rub a free hand over his busted lip. Damn Preston – little douchebag got lucky. Thinking of that dipshit makes him take another deep drag, lip be damned.

When he first started performing that night he’d been a bag of nerves – especially after his joke fell flat. But then he looked at Ford and he felt…better. His brother looked so encouraging, so hopeful, and Stanley just zeroed in on him. He remembered his brother’s text: _My clap should be the only one that matters, right?_

And it was.

It really was.

So Stanley looked at him and pretended no one else was there. Just Ford. And then he’d begun to play and it…it’d been easy. And once he’d finished the first song and no one had thrown tomatoes or booed, he relaxed considerably. He’d looked around the room and smiled and just transitioned into the next song and the one after that. It'd been so easy, so simple. And all because he knew his brother was supporting him. And it had all gone so well until he looked up to see Preston sitting at Ford’s table.

Honestly, Stan’s still surprised he managed to keep playing. That he hadn’t snapped the strings of his guitar with how hard he’d been strumming at that point, because Ford looked so hurt. He was making that face; that wounded animal expression that never fails to bring out the protector in Stanley. Stanley has always protected Ford – ever since they were kids. It’s just a natural instinct. It’s an ingrained part of who he is.

No one hurts Ford.

No one.

Especially not Northwest. Stan can’t count the number of times Ford's come home from school, grumbling about that jackass and the things he’s said and the way he’s treated him. And Ford – being Ford – has told him about it but, in the talking, comes around to the other side of it.

It always starts off like, ‘Preston was calling me ‘Fordsy’ and saying my genius must come from my extra finger, that I must have a second brain in there, and how he’d certainly like to have that sort of advantage but he doesn’t want to be disfigured. It really bothered me a lot but, oh well, I only have to deal with him a little longer, right?’

And Stan usually responds with a, ‘No! It’s not alright because you shouldn’t have to deal with it at all!’ and then Ford just brushes him off like it’s no big deal. No big deal! No big deal that he’s being ridiculed. No big deal that someone’s picking him apart. No big deal that he’s _hurt_ and Stan just can’t stand it. How can Ford take it so casually? How can he take verbal abuse from his peers without flinching? Like, he’s just used to it now. Oh, and ‘peers’? That’s hilarious, because these people are NOT Ford’s ‘peers’.

Ford is light years above them.

He’s like, he’s just…

Stan shakes his head and keeps smoking and he feels that ache deep inside again. That ache that he knows he shouldn’t feel. That ache that makes him sick. Sick in his head and his heart because the way he feels…it’s not right. And he doesn’t know why he feels this way. He often wonders if there isn’t some kind of cure, some kind of medication he can take. But he knows there isn’t. There’s no treatment. Nothing. No one wants to investigate it long enough to find out if there is, and he doesn’t blame them.

After all, who wants to take out time to study this-this perverted fetish he has? And yes, okay, it doesn’t really feel like a fetish per se. To him, a fetish would imply that it’s purely sexual and it’s not. Hell, you could take the whole sexual component out of the equation entirely and he knows he would still feel this way. He would feel…warm. Light headed. Butterflies in his stomach, goo goo eyed, star struck by…his brother. Christ. His _twin_.

He’s in love with him.

In _love_.

Like hearts and roses and candles and just…just love.

When he was younger he'd written it off as a crush. A crush certainly seemed more manageable, albeit still wrong. But a crush seemed like something that would eventually right itself and go away. Evaporate. He’d meet a girl and it would vanish. And he did meet a girl. He met Carla McCorkle and he’d been nuts about her. She’d been so beautiful, smart and classy. He can still remember all the times he spent talking to Ford about her, rhapsodizing for hours and his brother had been so supportive. Stan had thought – this is it! All this weird stuff I feel for Ford, it’s just going to go away now. But then Ford would smile at him or punch his arm or laugh and Stan would just…just feel dizzy. And he felt dizzy around Carla too, but it was…different.

It…wasn’t the same.

But then she’d started dating him and he'd felt so lucky. Out of all the schmucks she could have picked, she chose him! And it was wonderful. At first. It was perfect. At first. But as time dragged on and they dated, he became disenchanted. And he found his eyes straying to Ford again. Found himself wanting to spend more and more time with his brother than with his girlfriend.

And it didn’t make any sense.

Carla had so much more to offer him than his brother did. She was soft and sweet and she smelled so good. And kissing! She was a great kisser! He could kiss her for hours. But then at some point when he was kissing her, his eyes closed and he found himself…not thinking of her. It started off subtle. First he would kiss her and imagine she had glasses. No big deal, right? So, he liked glasses on a girl. Nothing wrong with that.

Then he began envisioning her with stronger features, a more cut jaw and, alright, sort of strange now, but still not bad. It wasn’t until one particularly heated make out session, her fingers trailing all over him that he realized he was imagining her having another finger and Jesus, the moment the idea came up he’d almost friggin’ lost himself right there. His blood had been pounding in his already hard dick and the thought just bolted through and he’d had to draw away to catch his breath because he wasn’t going to be _that_ guy.

God, if he came just from kissing…

That wasn’t even possible, was it? Also, he wasn’t the premature type. He prided himself on the idea that he had stamina and yes, this was sort of proven untrue later, when he actually _did_ have sex with her. Because he did. He slept with her. He lost his virginity to her in the backseat of his car because she initiated it and she said she wanted to go all the way and he was a hormonal teenage boy and he wasn’t going to turn down this opportunity.

Except when she’d been on top of him, writhing and moaning, his eyes had closed and he’d been thinking…fuck his life! He’d been thinking of _him_. Imagining Ford writhing and moaning and saying his name and clutching at him. And that set him off. That caused the fireworks to shoot behind his eyelids and he had had to cut off his brother’s name in a garbled grunt because he’d almost said it.

He’ll never forget that moment for as long as he lives.

The heavy fear that he’d said it aloud and she’d heard him.

But she hadn’t. She’d just sighed and kissed him and said it was great, even though he knew it wasn’t. They dated for a while after that, but eventually her eyes were drawn away by some burnout going by the name Thistle Downe – because Stanley refuses, to this day, to believe that that’s his _actual_ name. Then again, they did live in a world where people were naming their kids ‘Blue Ivy’ and ‘Apple’.

Still.

Thistle Downe?

If anything it’s a stage name, because the bastard performed one night in his and Carla’s favorite diner and that’d been that. Carla dumped him quicker than a flash and he’d tried to win her back. He felt like he needed to. She was his cover, his safety blanket. And he knew that was fucked up, but what else was he supposed to do?

Besides, she was a good girl and he _did_ like her! So, he’d sent her flowers again and again and she’d returned each of them until he reached a point where he could damn near rest on them like a second bed. Which he had. He’d collapsed on them in a heap in the room he shared with Ford and Ford picked up a bouquet of them and bopped him playfully on the nose, telling him not to worry about it.

He told Stan Carla had made a huge mistake and she’d regret it.

And Stanley looked up into Ford’s warm brown eyes and knew that, no, it wasn’t _Carla_ who’d made the mistake, it was him.

It would always be him.

Because somehow he managed to fall so deeply in love with someone else that he sabotaged the only shot he had at – at being normal. He hasn’t dated anyone since. He knows it’s not fair to. It's bad enough the way he'd treated Carla. Hell, Thistle was a weak ass name, but he's sure the guy probably treats her better. He hopes so. She deserves it. So, with her in mind as a cautionary tale, he doesn't date. He doesn’t want to punish someone else for his sins. For his inability to be a rational, well-functioning human being. Instead he’s buried himself into song. Into music. It’s a good outlet, a nice expression.

Stan can still remember the first time he picked up a guitar. It'd been an old acoustic piece someone traded into the Pawn Shop his family owned. It was a little worn – some bent frets, a few missing strings, and some scratches on the body, but it was mostly in decent condition. His father knew it would draw a higher price if it was brushed up, so he put Stanley in charge of fixing it. And since he had no earthly idea what he was doing, Stan had had to look up some information on it.

He worked over that stupid instrument far more than he would have liked to, but when he was done, he was oddly proud of himself. It looked like new. And then he just began strumming the strings out of idle curiosity and the sounds…they were so deep and interesting. The more he played, the more it sort of…resonated with him.

It was like the guitar was speaking for him and he knew how dumb that sounds, but it's true. It was like the guitar was connected to his soul and singing out and he wanted to know more. He wanted to know how to _actually_ play, because he knew he was basically just making noise. He wanted to take that noise and refine it – turn it into something more pure. A better reflection of who he was as a person – it was a deadly secret, these thoughts.

Far too embarrassing for anyone to know that this was how playing music made him feel. How it still makes him feel. Hell, he knows his singing voice isn’t much, but he honestly thinks his playing isn’t too shabby. The guitar does a much better job talking for him than his own mouth does. It’s almost like he discovered he’s been speaking in an alien language his whole life and the guitar’s the perfect translator.

His father had been horrified at first, when he’d asked for music lessons. He'd enrolled Stan in boxing and he thought that was what his son should pursue. A manly sport. But Stan eventually won him over. He pointed out how everyone loves music – even Pops – and he’d listed some of the old man's favorite musicians. And that had worked – after all, musicians could make a hell of a lot of money and at the end of the day, that was what Filbrick Pines cared about.

So Stanley was allowed to take up the guitar and his instructor also showed him the harmonica and he’d taken to that too. There were some other instruments he’d dabbled in, but those two worked out the best for him and then he’d started constructing his own songs. He wasn’t particularly skilled, but he was passable and lyric writing came a lot easier to him than he thought it would.

At first he was unsure - it seemed sort of…sappy. Even sappier than how he secretly felt about his playing. And past his inner turmoil vis-à-vis his feelings for his brother, he didn’t consider himself the emotional sort. But that was his way in. He started thinking up little bits about Ford and how Ford made him feel and then that had been that. His first song, ‘Never Gonna Happen’, hadn’t been all that great, but it'd been something.

Ford had certainly been a good sounding board.

And over time, the songs and lyrics grew. And they weren’t all about his brother. Some were about his father or his mother. Some were about fighting in the ring and there was even one about Carla and how he’d fucked that up. But he wasn’t sure he could ever perform. Not live, in front of people, for money. He told his Dad that to get what he wanted, but truthfully he could never envision himself in front of a crowd.

Not until recently.

He and Ford moved here and they both got jobs at The Press Room and when Toby announced how he wanted to do a Friday night jam session. how they could get local performers it was Ford – _Ford_ – who volunteered the fact that, hey, Stan plays an instrument. And next thing Stan knows, he’s roped into playing. He almost killed his brother that night, but Ford was so excited and encouraging and Fidds put his two cents in, remarking how he thought Stan was awful good and it's just one show and what was the harm and…

Stan flicks his finished cigarette over the side of the iron railing. He goes over to one of many dead potted plants. He takes a gentle grip of the withered out root of what was once a fern and lifts it up, soil spilling here and there. He digs out his pack of cigarettes and withdraws another stick before putting it all back into place.

Ford tried his best to grow plants, but he just does not have a green thumb. He’s actually killed plants that are said to be unkillable, like a cactus. Ford actually killed a cactus. He swears up and down that it was an accident, but it doesn’t matter. He somehow managed to destroy it. Fidds has a much better handle on plants, but since he’s always at his girl’s place, there’s no real point in keeping up with them.

This is why they have a nice collection of dead plants. Plants with deep pots that Stan hides his cigarette packs in. He lights up another one, smoke billowing out and he coughs, grimacing. He doesn’t like doing this, but it’s whatever. He scratches at the side of his face and contemplates growing a beard again. He’s thought of doing it on and off, but he doesn’t think he’d pull it off as well as Fiddleford. Fiddleford’s fluffy brown beard is a thing of beauty. Stan only ever seems to get a lot of scratchy stubble, same goes for Ford.

Though he rather likes Ford clean shaven. Sometimes he imagines what it would be like, to run the very tip of his nose along Ford’s freshly sheared jawline, to trail it down his neck and then just turn his head a little and lick-

Stan rolls his eyes. God, he really has a serious problem.

He reaches into the back pocket of his faded jeans and pulls out a little spiral notebook. He’s not going to become like his brother – with too many fancy, leather bound journals to count. But he does like having the little pad on hand, a stubby pencil he snagged from a bowling alley sticking inside the coiled ring at the top. He draws out the pencil, cigarette clamped firmly between his lips as he jots down some scratchy notes.

_The feel of your pulse, under my tongue, makes me hot and thirsty for some of your cum-_

His nose wrinkles. No. Too filthy. He runs a line through some of it and tries again.

_The feel of your pulse, under my tongue, the taste of you, I come undone_

Stan nods to himself, thinking this is much better when he hears a sound at the sliding glass door. He curses and closes up the notepad, tucking it away. He quickly stubs out the cigarette and flings it far away. He waves his arms about, trying to dispel the smoke as Ford comes out.

“Hey, you’ve been out here awhile why-?” Ford sniffs the air and his frown is legendary, “Have you been smoking?”

Stan sticks his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, “Nope.”

“Bullshit! I have a sense of _smell_ , Stanley! Which smokers lose! Do you want to know why?”

Stan lets out a groan, “No. God, please…”

“It’s because the chemicals in cigarette smoke dull the ability of the body’s olfactory nerves to register aromas! The longer you smoke, the more your chances of permanently damaging the receptors located in the back of your nose that transmit signals to-”

“I know, I know!” he interrupts sharply, “I _know_ , okay? But I wasn’t smoking!”

“Stanley!”

“And hey, even if I was, what the hell does it matter? We’re all gonna die of something someday, right?”

Ford crosses his arms and he’s really managed to nail that look of disapproval that’s normally reserved for older authority figures. Stan runs a hand through his hair and looks away, “Sooooo…it’s a little chilly.”

“It’s not that cold,” Ford snaps, “And don’t try to change the subject!”

“I thought it was always hot in California.”

“That’s a common misconception and what did I just say? No subject change! You _can’t_ smoke, Stanley.”

“I’m _not_!”

“You were.”

Stan breathes in deeply and glares at Ford, “You still haven’t countered my whole ‘we’re all gonna die anyway’ argument.”

“I don’t have to, because it’s a weak argument.”

“Says you.”

“Stanley,” Ford returns softly and it’s really not fair of him to pull the wounded animal face now, “I don’t want you to get hurt. Smoking hurts people. And more than just your sense of smell. Your sense of taste, your heart, your lungs…I don’t even have to get into the cancer facts, do I? Yes, we all are going to die someday, but I’d rather you not do it anytime soon. If ever.”

Stan licks his lips, feeling slightly contrite, “Okay, well, maybe I _used_ to smoke…like, back in high school, but you know about that and I quit.”

Ford’s eyebrows rise, the look of clear disbelief on his face making Stan’s lips twitch, “Okay, so…maybe I only _kinda_ quit.”

“Stan…” Ford’s tone is so sad that Stanley feels a lump form in his throat, “Look, sometimes I just…I need it.”

“Because you’re addicted.”

“No,” Stan mutters, then adds, “Okay, yes. Probably. But more because I just…I get so _mad_ and tonight Preston-”

“You punched him, Stanley. Several times. That didn’t get the anger out of your system?”

“It did…a little,” Stan chuckles, “You shoulda seen his face when I first decked him. It was priceless.”

Ford can’t help but grin, “I’ll just bet.”

“He looked so stumped. And stupid.”

“Really?”

Stan nods, “Bet he thinks next time before mouthing off to my bro.”

“Highly doubtful,” Ford says as he pushes his glasses up and looks out over the city, “It’s pretty out tonight.”

Stan just hums in agreement. Ford looks at him thoughtfully, “Stanley?”

“Yeah?”

“Why…why were you so mad?”

Stan feels his blood freeze. He ignores it, lies always at the ready, “Told you. He ruined my show. And I don’t like it when he talks shit to you.”

“He _always_ talks shit to me. You’ve even been around when he’s done it. Never seen you punch him before.”

Stan shrugs, “I reached my limit.”

Ford looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead he just looks out again and Stan watches the lights play along his face. Gold, white, red…they dance over Ford’s face. The sky behind him is a deep blue and he makes such a perfect picture. His bangs hang a little over his thick black glasses and his profile is so classic. He’s damn near like a model posing there - body wiry but strong, hands buried deep in his pockets. Pockets of pants that are far too tight and show off how his legs are actually pretty skinny, but so oddly appealing and Stan’s thought _a lot_ about those legs. A breeze blows through, tosses Ford’s hair a little, tries to lick at him, but Stan knows he can’t feel it. Ford is a two layers kind of guy – sweater pulled over button up shirt, beanie firmly in place.

And his face. Somehow (as far as Stan is concerned) Ford managed to come out on top when it comes to their similar faces. Whereas Stan’s features are blunt, he finds Ford’s more artful. Sharp nose, beautifully sculpted mouth. The top lip is a little thin, but the bottom one…so many nights, when he’s allowed the forbidden thoughts to come, Stan’s fantasized about that bottom lip.

How it would feel to gently bury his teeth into it, to draw it deep into his own mouth and caress it with his tongue, swallow any moans that might escape before slanting their lips together into a better, deeper contact. A hungry kiss. Just…devouring him, slick tongues dueling and Stan shakes his head and tries to get a hold of himself.

Still, more lyrics come to mind, unbidden:

_Your face, in lights and shadows, want to capture it all and keep it close. Kiss you deep, hold you close…_

Hmm – he doesn’t want to repeat ‘close’. He’ll have to think of another word, but it’s not bad. He wants to draw out his notepad, but he doesn’t. He just looks at Ford and hears himself breathe, listens to his heart thump-thump-thumping in his ears. Eventually he asks, “So, you making dinner?”

Ford nods, “Yeah, one of the reasons I came out here. Wanted to ask you what you feel like. We got ramen, ramen, ramen and – oh yeah, some ramen.”

“Huh. Welllllll, I’m feeeeeelin’ like ramen, sooooo-”

Ford chuckles and lightly punches Stan’s arm, “We really need to go grocery shopping soon.”

“You don’t say?”

His brother goes back to the door, “Come on, hurry up. Don’t want to leave you out here unsupervised. You might light up again.”

“I told you - I wasn’t smoking!” Stan mumbles and Ford smacks his shoulder, “Yeah, sure you weren’t. Apparently we’re going to have to save up for some patches or gum or something.”

“Well, why don’t you just make an invention to cure it, Poindexter?”

“Maybe I will, smart ass,” Ford returns as he and his brother go back inside their apartment.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m thinking of getting a tattoo.”

Ford’s mouth is half full of ramen noodles when Stan makes this announcement, so he has to noisily slurp up the rest in order to answer and even then, it comes out as more of a muffled sound of encouragement for him to continue than actual words.

Still, being more ‘we’ than ‘I’, Stan has no trouble understanding him, “Yeah, just think it’d be cool to have one.”

Noodles fully swallowed, Ford asks, “How are you going to afford it?”

“It’d be free. Remember Jeff? Guy I do some construction jobs with? He’s opening his own tattoo parlor, said I could come by and get some ink on the house.”

They’re sitting in their messy living room on the cheap futon they bought at Goodwill. The beat up, tiny television they own is a few feet in front of them, VHS player hooked up, Grandpa the Kid playing at weak volume as Ford asks, “Yeah?”

Stan nods, “Yup.”

“What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch.”

“Stanley,” Ford says, tone gently chastising, and Stan bends a little, “Okay, well…he might’ve said he wants to test out the equipment on somebody.”

This is met with a laugh, “You do realize tattoos are permanent?”

“I’ll just make sure to pick something he can’t mess up.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno, that’s why I’m telling you about it,” Stan nudges Ford when he says ‘you’ and Ford feels his face heat for some ludicrous reason, “What do you think I should get?”

“My name and cell number. So, when you get lost, people will know who to return you to,” Ford answers without thinking, but once the words come out and he hears them, he worries about Stanley’s reaction. It’s not something he would have worried about before, but now…

Damn Preston.

And damn himself. Why, oh why did Ford let Northwest’s words get to him? Insults, jabs, jeers – everything that has ever come out of Preston’s mouth strikes him and leaves some sort of mark. Ford does his best to brush it off, but Preston’s that special kind of bully – somehow the things he says always manage to stick. Maybe…maybe because they’re true?

No.

 _No_. They’re _not_ true.

Ford _knows_ this.

He knows – logically – that he is smart and capable and all the dumb stuff Preston’s ever lobbied at him is lies. Like how he’s ‘defective’ and how his genius is probably only due to his ‘extra parts’. Total malarkey. But the words hurt. They chip at what little self-esteem he has and now this latest round of remarks…

It’s not so much insults as…as insanity.

The idea that Stanley…

That Ford…

That they could be…that they are…

Ford can’t even think the words because of how crazy it all is. Still, as Preston’s words always do, they’ve burrowed their way deep into his brain and he can’t get them out. It’s made him begin to wonder how often he’s…talked this way. He’d never analyzed their discussions before. Never thought of anything as being peculiar or out of the ordinary. But now he finds himself overanalyzing every word but Stanley, completely oblivious to his inner turmoil, merely rolls his eyes, “Hardy har har.”

At this reaction, Ford relaxes considerably, “Hey, that would have been helpful two weeks ago when you, Jeff, and some of those other bozos you work with went off and got wasted downtown!”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Stanley, you passed out in a gutter on seventh avenue. Ass up. And they left you there. The only reason you made it home safe at all was because of that nice cab driver.”

“Oh yeeeeah,” Stan drags out and laughs as if the awful memory is a pleasant one, “Enrique! He was a cool guy!”

Ford just sighs. He can’t believe his brother is going to try and make this all seem like it was a fun adventure. He’ll never forget how upset he’d been that night. Sometimes Stan came home late, especially when he was hanging out with his construction pals, but it was well after midnight before Ford heard anything. He’d been calling and texting Stan’s cell like mad when finally someone picked up and spoke to him in broken English. Thankfully he was fluent in several languages, Spanish chief among them, and he’d been able to find out from Enrique everything that happened.

With Ford’s instructions, the driver easily navigated Stan home and for his good deed, Ford rewarded him, which he reminds Stanley of now, “Uh huh, a cool guy who I had to tip all of our grocery money for this week.”

“You didn’t have to tip him _all_ of it.”

“Yes, I did,” Ford argues, “He could have just left you there. You got lucky, Stanley. Not everyone is a good Samaritan.”

Stan shifts where he sits, picking at the noodles in bowl, “Yeah, I suppose.”

Ford looks down at his own food but his eyes shift to Stanley now and again as he worries his lower lip between his teeth. Stanley’s always had something of a self-destructive streak. Ford can’t pinpoint when exactly it began, but he can say without any hesitation that it concerns him a great deal. The idea of anything bad happening to Stanley fills him with dread.

When they were younger – and a lot more foolish – Stanley would often commit death defying stunts. Jumping into the deep end of the pool when they barely knew how to swim. Making his bike leap over big ditches. One time he had even found a book of matches and would light each little stick and hold it underneath his palm, so close to the skin that Ford’s eyes would grow big and terrified, worried that his brother would burn himself.

But Stan just laughed it off. He joked about how he was fire proof, bullet proof – just…danger proof! Of course Ford’s not so lucky. He knows for a fact that he’s _not_ danger proof. He remembers the exact moment when he learned this. He rubs a hand along his spine and while he can’t feel the scar, he knows it’s there. Neither of them talks about it, but Ford knows that that was a defining moment in their lives. It was when everything changed. It was when the innocence of being children dropped away and the reality of being alive, of growing up, dropped on them.

Come to think of it; that was also when Stan’s over protectiveness of Ford started. It’s not that Stan wasn’t protective of him before – the moment kids started picking on Ford for his extra fingers, Stan started being his guardian. But the scar…how it happened…that was what had driven it into an almost insane overdrive. It’s what has propelled Stan to always jump to Ford’s defense, even when Ford doesn’t ask for it.

Tonight being a perfect example.

Yes, Preston upset Ford, but he'd been handling it. He didn’t need Stanley coming out; fists at the ready. Ford can take care of himself! Just because of one time, that _one_ time…

Ford swears he feels the scar twinge and he rubs at it again before forcing his mind to shift to something else. Anything else. Tonight is not a night to drudge up those bad memories. Instead he puts his bowl down on the cheap thrift store coffee table before him. He crosses his legs under himself, turning to better face his brother. He tries to focus on the discussion at hand, “Well, how about a star? That would be a good tattoo Jeff couldn’t mess up.”

“Why a star?”

“Because you are one,” Ford smirks, “You’re a rock star.”

Stan puts his own bowl to one side and laughs, punching at his brother’s arm, “Yeah, right.”

“Hey, you blew the lid off the coffee shop tonight! Well, until the fight that is.”

“True,” he mutters and pokes at his lip again. Ford swats at his hand, “Stop picking at it! Bad enough you were smoking earlier. This, by the way, is where I segue into how bad you smell.”

“Oh, because you smell like a bed of roses,” Stan says with a huff, “You haven’t showered in days, you grease ball!”

“I’ll have you know I showered yesterday,” Ford returns sharply, “And if I was, ah, lax in my hygiene before you can blame Professor Tanenbaum’s insane assignments.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah – I know. You get too lost in your studying to eat, sleep, or shower and that’s all gravy. I forget to do those things and I’m just the worst.”

“You’re not the worst,” Ford argues, “I just worry about you more than I worry about myself.”

Again, words leave him without Ford thinking twice about it and again, he looks to Stan, wonders how he takes it. Stanley doesn’t seem at all alarmed, “You _should_ worry about me more, since I’m the one bringing in the bulk of our dinero.”

“I bring in some money!”

“What, from the two shifts a week at you work at The Press Room? Oh yeah, _that’s_ what pays our bills.”

“I make my own contribution,” Ford argues, “I keep an eye on our finances. Although not a good enough eye if you’re managing to squirrel away money for cigarettes!”

Stan rubs at his eyes, “Christ, you’re not gonna let that go anytime soon, are ya?”

“You smell like an ash tray.”

“Please. At most I smell like…a dragon.”

This throws Ford for a loop, “A dragon?”

Stan crosses his arms and nods, looking proud of himself, “They breathe fire. Smoke, ash – soooo….”

“God, you’re unbelievable,” Ford returns, but his tone is colored with affection. It’s hard not to admire Stan’s spirit. Even when he’s wrong, “No more cigarettes, Stan. I mean it.”

“Sure, sure,” Stan offers, “Now, back to the matter at hand – tattoo ideas! Hit me!”

“No to the star then?”

“Eh, I don’t think it’s me.”

“Where are you even going to put this fabled mark?”

Stan pats his back right shoulder and Ford looks at it thoughtfully, “Hmm…butterfly?”

“Be serious.”

“I am! Butterflies are easy.”

“I’m not putting a butterfly on my body.”

“A heart.”

“Oh god.”

“You could have ‘Mom’ written in it.”

“Never mind. You’re useless!” Stan mutters and he punches at Ford’s arm again only for Ford to return it and for a moment they mock fight, arms and light fists dodging out at one another. Stan gets Ford in a headlock and digs his knuckles into Ford’s scalp and Ford yelps about how his beanie’s going to fall off so Stan tugs it off and tosses it on to the coffee table, much to Ford’s annoyance. Ford eventually manages to wiggle free and he pounces, pining Stan to the futon.

Stan laughs and they struggle, flopping from one side to the other, hands locked, arms shaking as they push one another back and forth albeit Stan winning most of the time due to sheer brute strength. He gets Ford beneath him but his brother’s struggles cause Stan’s elbow to twist and jut out at an odd angle, knocking Ford’s glasses to the carpet.

“Hot Belgian waffles!” Ford curses and Stan busts out laughing, the bulk of his weight collapsing on his brother. Ford laughs as well, all the fake fight dropping out of him. When they were kids their parents sometimes sent them to stay with their Great Aunt, or their ‘Grauntie’ for the summer. Being well into her twilight years, and unaware that their parents already cursed in front of them, she tried her best to spare what she perceive as their ‘delicate sensibilities’ and often replaced swear words with words of her own invention.

‘Hot Belgian waffles’ was one of her favorites and Ford and Stan picked it up merely because of how much fun it was to say. Neither of them has said it in a while, however, so hearing it now puts them both into hysterics. They lie there on the couch, tangled together, breathless and laughing. Stan props himself up on his arms and he looks down into Ford’s face and Ford’s panting, his vision fuzzy even with his brother this close and suddenly the air…shifts. It’s…different. The playfulness leaves and a hot tension takes its place. Ford swallows visibly and he realizes his heart is in his throat.

It’s…hard to breathe.

His blood feels electrified and an unfathomable anticipation falls over him. He can feel every line, every minuscule curve of Stan’s body. Can feel heat seeping through his clothes and Ford squints, tries to see Stanley more clearly because this…this is sort of killing him.

But Stan just rolls off and sits up. He fishes Ford’s glasses from the floor and he gently eases them back onto his brother’s face, pushing on the bridge until it rests perfectly up on Ford’s nose.

Ford can see now.

Can see Stan sitting across from him and Stan’s face is open, expression soft. The lights from the television dance over him and the tiny alcove that is their kitchen is in shadows behind him. And he looks…

It’s so strange.

Ford has seen Stan a hundred times. He knows exactly what he looks like with perfect certainty, can close his eyes and still see him, but in this moment…

It’s almost like looking at someone new.

Like seeing someone for the first time.

And it’s such a weird thought, such an incongruity that he does his best to sound nonchalant, reminding himself that the moment is probably only unusual to him, “I'll take that as a ‘no’ on the heart idea, then.”

“Yup.”

“Well, you must have some idea of what you want.”

Stan gives him a funny look at this, but Ford doesn’t even have time to question it before Stan plucks up one of Ford’s journals. A stack of them had been resting on the floor and Stan flips through it, even as Ford objects. He turns one of the pages to him, “You should come up with something. I mean, look at this!”

The page he shows Ford is full of his multi-dimensional paradigm theory notes but also some sketchy art pieces he drew. There are some UFOs, aliens, weird spirals and other patterns and Stan taps it, “See here? You’ve got all kinds of artistic stuff going on in that knucklehead of yours! You could design me something!”

Ford bites the inside of his cheek, “Hmm, I don’t know…”

“Come on! You do art all the time for those commissions on Eatsy!”

“It’s Etsy and I don’t do my commissions there. Or, not solely there. I do most of them on my Tumblr,” Ford argues, “And, thanks for reminding me of that, because – hey, that’s another way I contribute to us monetarily.”

“I take it I hit a nerve?”

“You were implying that I don’t pull my weight!” Ford says in an injured tone, “That you work hard all day and all I do is go to my ‘nerd school’.”

“I didn’t call it a ‘nerd school’…this time. And that wasn’t what I meant. I know you bring in some money, but it’s not so much from working a job. Like I said, you only pull one or two shifts at The Press Room. However, I will admit I was remiss in not mentioning the money you make from your drawings of two fictional characters humping one another’s brains out. That _is_ what you draw on your tumbleweed for money, right?”

“It’s Tumblr and…um, yes,” Ford blushes, “That is the majority of what I am commissioned for.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Stan snorts, amused, “But that’s not my point. My point is that you’re a great artist and you should just come up with something cool for me to get a tattoo of. Something original.”

“I-I don’t know. I mean…I guess I could try…”

Stan puts Ford’s journal on the coffee table and roughly pats one of Ford’s arms as he gets to his feet, “Awesome! Well, you come up with a few cool doodles and we’ll go from there. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I apparently have to take a shower because smelling like a dragon is too cool for you.”

Stan leaves the room and Ford sits there, puzzling over what kind of designs he could come up with that would be good tattoos. He picks up his journal and flips through it, looking at some of his artwork. Art is just a hobby to him, but it’s done well for him in the past. People seem to think he produces good work and he has to admit, it’s fun to do something creative. He likes to draw – especially when he’s struggling with a particular problem.

With this in mind, he looks around for a pen and when he finds one he jumps to a blank page in the journal. The tip of his pen flies over the page and slowly it fills with shape and definition and, before he knows it, he’s drawn a rather clean rendition of his brother’s face. He zeroes in on the eyes, making them darker and deeper. He looks at them, remembers how they looked in that alley, when they had been right over him a few minutes ago, how they’d looked when Ford had his glasses back on and Stan came into beautifully stark clarity…

Ford looks at the drawing and sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as the wheels in his head start working double time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed rating - can't seem to stay away from those higher ratings. Added some tags to highlight rating change!

Stan comes out of the shower – fresh, clean and smelling like daises. He pulls on his white tank top and some striped boxer shorts and goes looking for Ford. Their apartment is tiny, so there are not too many places he could be. The tiny kitchen is in shadows, as is their ‘dining’ room – which is pretty much just a cheap table and chairs they got on sale at IKEA.

Stan had left him in the living area, but the tiny TV is off and there’s just the messy collection of notebooks, game console controllers, remotes, magazines, and Ford’s book bag and messenger bag. Against the wall near the front door there are three bikes and a hat stand that Fiddleford brought from home.  The collection of hats on it is ridiculous and varied.

He looks at Fidds’s bedroom door and its shut tight. He turns to the room he shares with Ford and finds amber light glowing from beneath the doorway. He opens it to find Ford sitting on their bed using his art tablet. The room – as always – is a wreck. Clothes are strewn everywhere, as are crumpled up pieces of paper, some dirty dishes, and dog-eared paperback novels. Neither Ford nor Stan is very dutiful when it comes to cleaning. The bed itself is just a king sized mattress and box spring that rest on the floor – no bed frame necessary (or affordable).

The bed is an assortment of messy blankets, sheets, and pillows and several of these pillows are currently bunched up behind Ford’s back as he works on his art tablet. He looks up to see Stan and colors slightly, “Oh – ah. I-I didn’t realize you’d be done so quickly.”

“What – you thought I was jacking it in there or something?” Stan jokes – mainly to see his brother’s color worsen but also because, well, it’s…the truth, actually. And normally he would have taken his time but wrestling with Ford on the futon had stirred up some…feelings. Normally Stan's right on top of it – he’s had years and years of practice. He's pretty controlled now when it comes to his desires. It's a perfectly constructed mask – a façade that his brother has thus far never seen through.

Ford has no idea how Stanley really feels – so it leaves Stan free to daydream and to – guiltily – get off on the idea of his brother. He used to feel bad about it, but eventually he just moved past it. After all, it’s just fantasies – nothing real and concrete and okay, yes, his _feelings_ are real and concrete but he’s never acted on them. He never will. So, he doesn’t see the harm in letting himself indulge in his desires now and then. What Ford doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?

And Stan really can’t think of anything else when he touches himself. He just imagines Ford kissing him or going down on him or – as he did tonight – he thought of Ford, over top of him (because at one point, Ford _had_ been over top of him) pushing him down onto the futon and Stan thought about what it would be like if Ford just eased his pants off and slid inside his body – how big Ford would be and how full Stan would feel - and it’d been too much, too much…

It was one of the reasons everything went so, ah, quickly. Normally Stan has more stamina, but the idea of Ford taking him sexually was overwhelming. It isn’t like he hasn’t thought of this before but tonight; somehow, it was just more intense than usual. He’s still impressed he was able to cut off his groan. It'd been so hard to stay silent, but he’d done it – not wanting the sound to reverberate and echo off the tiles and out to Ford.

But Ford, for his part, is his normally oblivious self. His color does deepen, as Stan thought it would, and his eyes shift away shyly, “N-no, I just…you were quick is all.”

Stan decides to take a little mercy on him and changes the subject, “What are you working on?”

Apparently this question does not relieve Ford’s embarrassment. If anything, it heights it, and he’s such a bright, cherry red now that Stan worries he’s going to pass out – all the blood apparently flooding into his face,  “I…um…w-well, a-a commission.”

“An art commission?”

Ford’s head bobs wildly and he curls the tablet closer to himself, “Talking to you earlier reminded me I have one to work on and I...I started, but got sort of…intimidated by the subject and hadn’t finished.”

“Oh, okay,” Stan flops dramatically on the bed next to him and while Ford still looks highly uncomfortable he slowly starts to relax, lowering the tablet little by little. Stan decides to help, reaching out and finding a comic book to flip through. They rest there for a while, silence settling between them and once Ford’s returned to his normal hue, Stan carefully asks, “Can I see?”

Ford’s eyes widen and he clutches the tablet to his chest again. He shakes his head and Stan laughs, “Aw, come off it, bro! I know what you draw, okay? I’ve perused that tumbleweed site – I know it’s legitimately about ninety percent porn.”

“I told you, it’s Tumblr and it is not!” Ford argues, pushing up his glasses, “If anything, it’s seventy percent. I’ve never done the research but-”

“Yeah, whatever – look, I know that’s what’s on there, I know that’s what you draw, and there’s no reason to feel all embarrassed about it. I promise I won’t judge you – now show me!”

Ford bites his bottom lip and eyes the tablet, “But it’s…it’s very,” he looks around like someone will hear them, even though they’re alone in their room and the door and windows are shut, before whispering, “Kinky.”

“Ohh la la! Like spanking?”

Ford shakes his head.

“Handcuffs?”

Another head shake.

“Bestiality?”

“Psh! No!” Ford mutters, rolling his eyes, “It’s…ah…see it’s…um…”

He looks away, scratching behind one ear, “It’s-it’s one man but he’s sort of…there are-are other men…”

“Holy crap! You drew a _gang-bang_!”

Ford nearly drops the tablet, “N-no! Not-not exactly! It’s-it’s a fanon thing…”

“A what?”

“F-Fanon, it’s when a bunch of fans of a show collectively decide that something happened on the show or to one of the characters, but it’s never been confirmed in canon.”

At another blank look, Ford explains, “Canon is when something _actually_ happens on a show or in a movie. Like, how in ‘Grandpa the Kid’ series, Grandpa was married twice. We know that, because the movies told us that. But an example of fanon is how fans think his first wife was killed by the Red Hill Bandit – the movies never outright said that’s what happened, but that’s what most people believe happened.”

“Oooookay, I…think I got that, but is that what you’re drawing? Grandpa the Kid with a bunch of dicks? How is that funyon?”

“ _Fanon_ – good lord, do you even _try_ to listen to me when I speak?”

Stan gives him a killer grin, “Maybe I mess it up on purpose ‘cause you’re so cute when you’re frazzled.”

Ford swallows and looks distinctly uncomfortable. Stan frowns – normally Ford just rolls his eyes when he casually flirts with him because, well, Ford’s not very good at picking up on the fact that Stan’s flirting with him. Ford is a genius and super smart when it comes to a lot of things – but flirting? Oh god, he’s absolutely helpless. But he seems to have picked up on it this time and Stan feels a little disoriented.

He clears his throat and hurries on, “So, is that what it is? Grandpa the Kid fanart?”

“No…this is for a cartoon show.”

“Damn! People like to see kids cartoon characters getting freaky?”

He nods, “It’s pretty popular. Though the show I’m currently drawing for it actually pretty deep for a kids show. It’s about time travel and other dimensions and-”

“And some dude getting it from, what – two other guys?”

“Um…four?”

“FOUR!” Stan busts out laughing, “You’re drawing a guy who’s taking it from FOUR dicks?! How is that even possible? How do you even know about something like that?”

Ford looks like he just wants to curl up and die, so Stan lays off a little, trying to cool his humor, instead switching to a supportive pat on the arm, “Aw, come on, Sixer. Let me have a peek. I promise I won’t make fun of you – you know I’d never do that anyway, right?”

His brother bites the inside of his cheek, “I…suppose.”

He holds out the tablet and the moment Stan takes it, he buries his head under several pillows and pushes them down on his face, clearly hiding. Stan looks at the tablet and can’t help the low whistle that leaves him. As always, Ford’s artwork is very impressive. But instead of his normal cute doodles, this is – this is very well detailed. And high erotic. A very handsome looking man is getting double penetrated while stroking one dick and taking another in his mouth.

Stan can’t seem to stop looking at it.

It’s not even that the art is good (which it is) but it’s more the fact that it’s that _Ford_ drew this. Ford had to…had to figure out how the anatomy for all of this would work – the body placement and facial structures and…fuck, dick shapes. And it should really just be silly or something, shouldn’t it? Not…not sexy. Like, Stan has to discreetly adjust himself because it’s sort of getting him excited and he knows it shouldn’t, but goddamn if Ford can’t draw some amazing porn.

He gently puts the tablet near one of Ford’s hands and he taps the pillow top, “Hey…I saw it. You can come out now.”

He gets a muffled ‘No!’ in response so he taps it again, “Come on, Stanford. It’s no big deal! And your work is very good!”

Ford peeks half of his face out, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But, why is it fanon for this guy to be doing this?”

“Just a theory that he likes…um…a lot of attention. It started off as kind of a joke and then it just grew from there.”

“Huh, well – you did a really good job with it,” Ford doesn’t say anything and continues to look unsure, so Stan continues, “Honestly – it’s a great example of why I want you to come up with a design for my tattoo. I mean, clearly I don’t want anything this risqué, but you’re a very talented artist and I think you can come up with something great. And it’d be special ‘cause you designed it.”

Ford pushes the pillows away and he sits up. He looks distinctly uncomfortable again as he rubs at one of his arms, eyes downcast, “Um…about that…do you-do you think we’re…too close?”

Stan’s completely thrown by the question, “Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean, you want me to design a tattoo that’s going to be permanently on your body.”

“So?”

“So, that just…seems a bit much. And then there’s this.”

“This?”

“Us. Here, now…we share the same room _and_ the same bed. You don’t think that’s weird?”

Stan bristles, slightly annoyed, “No. We’ve shared the same room since we were kids! And as for the bed, we couldn’t afford more than one mattress, remember? You didn’t seem to have a problem back when we bought this thing!”

“I know, I know. When we moved here we didn’t have a lot, but we’ve certainly earned money since then and we’ve…we’ve never even thought about putting some money aside for another bed. And then there’s Fidds…he’s never really here anymore. One of us could probably crash in his room and he wouldn’t care or one of us could sleep out on the futon but instead-”

“Ford, where the hell is this coming from?” Stan asks because Ford’s arguments don’t seem all that sincere and, frankly, they’re starting to hurt his feelings. Despite his secret interest, he’s never done anything to make Ford feel awkward about their sharing a bed. He honestly did go into it for the monetary savings – being able to cuddle up against the person he loves is just an added bonus. And Ford’s never complained about it before, so for it to come up now and in this moment seems…odd.

And then Ford just makes it worse, “I don’t know, I just…I guess…I mean, it’s just that we-we spend an awful lot of time together, you know? When I’m not a school or you’re not at work and we’re kinda wrapped up in one another more than we probably should be. Like, it’s unnatural for siblings to be as close as we are, isn’t it? And it-it must be kind of suffocating-”

“Oh _ho_! So, I _suffocate_ you!” Stan snaps, wounded, and Ford looks miserable, “No! That’s not what I said!”

“Look, you want the bed to yourself, that’s fine!” Stan snatches up some of the pillows and blankets, “I’ll sleep on the futon tonight. Give you all the space and breathing room you need!”

“Wait! Stanley!” Ford calls after him but it’s too late. Stan slams the bedroom door behind him as he charges out to the futon. He smacks a bunch of stuff off of it with one big, hurried hand before folding it out. They’ve never really used it this way before but it was designed to be another bed – so why not use it? Especially since Ford apparently needs a big ol’ bed all to himself or something because apparently he can’t friggin’ draw oxygen otherwise!

And Stan knows he’s probably overreacting but he’s just…he doesn’t understand why Ford would say that. Doesn’t understand why Ford’s been so squirrely all evening. It’s not like him and it’s frustrating. Normally Ford talks to him, but tonight he’s been a closed trap – it started with Preston and is ending with this.

Stan knows he should be the bigger man – go back to the bedroom, apologize, get his brother to tell him what exactly his damage is…but he doesn’t have the strength for it. His emotions have been on a roller-coaster tonight and he just…he needs a break. Sleep will give him a break. Nothing like good old unconsciousness to make you feel right as rain.

Besides, if Ford has any worries about Stan’s feelings, he’s sure not showing them. He doesn’t come out of the bedroom. He just stays in there like a damned insensitive sentinel. Stan flops down on the hard mattress and stares up at the shadowy ceiling for a long while. He can’t sleep because he keeps thinking about what an asshole his brother is, so eventually he gets up and sneaks out to the balcony for another cigarette. He lights it up, puffing it angrily and is generally scowling until he’s done.

After that he goes back inside and to the futon and it’s nowhere near as comfortable as his bed – the one that Ford is probably happily sleeping in and he still can’t believe the prick hasn’t even bothered to check on him! He lays back down, punching his pillow a couple of times. His heart and mind are racing and he tosses and turns and it takes him far longer to fall asleep than he would like.

 

+

 

Stan has the weirdest set of dreams – they all collide together – something about coffee and playing the guitar and then there’s Grandpa the Kid and ramen and then it morphs into something more shapeless with moans and sweat and he feels like there are hands all over him, a wet mouth sliding down his stomach towards his growing erection when something nudges his shoulder and he hears a noise.

He frowns and feels consciousness slowly seep back in. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he’s awake and there’s that gentle nudge again, followed by a whisper of his name. He blinks in the darkness, confused when he looks up and the ceiling doesn’t look right and he wonders where exactly he is, when he hears his name again and recognizes Ford’s voice.

A questioning hum is all he can manage and in return he gets a soft, “Stan, can you hear me? You awake?”

“Hmm.”

“Is-is that a yes?”

“Whadya want?” Stan mumbles, still drowsy, and for a few seconds there’s no answer and Stan feels like he’s going to pass out again when Ford comes closer, his breath washing over Stan’s face, “I can’t sleep. Can-can I sleep with you?”

Stan’s mind is coming back to him more and more and as his wakefulness begins to take his hold, his memories from earlier come back to him. He doesn’t feel the same anger – too tired _to_ feel it – but still…

“Why?”

“I’m cold.”

Stan snorts and rolls over, burying himself deeper into his blankets and pillows, “Always cold.”

“I know,” Ford says, his tone self-deprecating, “But you know I can’t help it…”

Stan just grunts.

“…please, Stanley?”

A huge huff of air leaves Stan and he pushes himself back so that Ford can crawl into the bed. Eagerly, Ford slips beneath the covers, his back facing Stanley. At first, Stan is focused on immediately falling back to sleep. He has to work tomorrow and he doesn’t want to fight with Ford more, but then his knee juts out and touches him and – shit!

“Christ! You’re like an ice cube!” Stan hisses and he draws his knee back, “How do you _get_ so fucking chilly?”

“I don’t know.”

This is met with another grumble and Stan opens his eyes fully. He stares at the back of Ford’s head – or, more accurately, he glares at it. Ford’s curled in on himself and he has his arms wrapped around himself and…goddamn it.

“Goddamn it! C’mere,” Stan grunts and he draws Ford into his arms. It’s like snuggling with a snowman, but Ford lets out a pleased whine and damn near melts into Stan, “So warm.”

“Yeah, yeah – I know. I’m fire, you’re ice.”

“Like a furnace,” Ford mumbles and his tone is full of sleepy affection. Stan’s face is buried into Ford’s hair and he takes a big whiff. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it and god, why does his brother have to smell so friggin’ good? And he _feels_ good too. Feels all nice, cuddled up in his arms and they’re fucking _spooning_.

He wonders if this is ‘suffocating’ too and he’s sure Ford’ll freak out any second (once he warms up) and he’ll demand Stan let him go and yammer on about how weird this all is. Never mind they’ve actually slept this way more times than not, and there’s no reason in hell Ford should feel weird about it, because it’s not like Stan’s going to grope him for god’s sake and-!

“I’m sorry.”

Stan stiffens at the words.

“I’m…sorry, Stanley. About earlier.” Ford waits for Stan to say something and when he doesn’t, he goes on, “I would have come out and-and talked with you more, but…you were so angry. I thought it’d be best to let you cool off and then I thought I should probably just go to sleep and talk to you in the morning. And I know you shouldn’t go to sleep angry. I mean, _I_ wasn’t angry but I know _you_ were and…”

He trails off, sounding helpless, and Stan feels like he should say something but he doesn’t know what _to_ say. Then his brother quietly admits, “It was Preston.”

“Preston?” Stan parrots and he feels Ford nod, scalp moving under his lips, “Preston said that you were…that-that we were, um, too close. Like, weird close.”

Stan finds his grip on Ford tightening and for some reason, he feels an ugly pulse of anxiety deep within him. He doesn’t give much credence to anything that jackoff says, but he’s starting to get the impression that Ford’s sugar coating it. Does Preston…know? Does he somehow know how Stan feels about Ford? Did he tell Ford that? Was that why Ford was being so strange?

He never thought his feelings were really all that obvious to anyone else. Honestly, as long as Ford never noticed, he’d always figured he had everything under wraps. But if Northwest’s noticed…

Stan thinks over everything he’s done lately – anything Preston might have seen that would have tipped him off to how Stan actually feels, but nothing comes to mind so he starts blustering, “Preston’s a fucking moron! Why do you listen to him? Why do you care what he thinks!?”

“I don’t know,” Ford moans, voice full of self-loathing, “I know I should know better! I have a stunning IQ and still…I-I let my emotions get the best of me. I wish…I wish I could just shut it all down, you know? Compartmentalize it all. Control my emotions. Maybe when I’m older…”

“You mean when you’re wrinkly and gray and still an idiot?”

Ford struggles a little in Stan’s grip, huffing angrily, “Hey! I’m not-!”

“You are, if you let Preston get into your head,” Stan argues, “Fuck him, Ford! He’s a silver spooned, Daddy’s boy who doesn’t know shit! The only opinions that should ever matter to you is your own. And by lesser extension, the people you care about.”

“So…you don’t think our relationship is…too close?”

 _No_ , Stan’s thoughts growl, _it’s not close enough. I want more. I want to kiss you. I want to trace your lips with my tongue, to ease it deep into your mouth and taste you. I want to roll you under me right now and run my hands all over your body. I want to bury my face against your neck and nuzzle it, bite it. I want to trail my mouth along your collarbone and then go lower. I want your legs wrapped around me, squeezing me tight, I want to hear your moans in my ear, I want you panting and gasping and saying my name in passion and I want to make love to you until neither of us can breathe and I want more than that even – I want it all. I want you. I want you. I want you. I love you._

“No,” Stan says, “I think it’s fine. I think we’re brothers and twins and we’re close and that’s all. I think it’s totally whatever we want it to be.”

“Then it’s normal,” Ford returns, more to himself than to Stan and he nods again, “It’s normal.”

Stan tugs him close again, plants the lightest of kisses on Ford’s head, grateful that his brother can’t see his face right now, “Yeah. Totally normal.”


	5. Chapter 5

“No, we’re doing okay. Thanks again for the cell phones. I know we’ve thanked you before, but it’s been really helpful,” Ford says into his cell, which he has precariously balanced between his face and his shoulder as he carefully slips a slice of iced raspberry pound cake into a paper sleeve.

Fidds is busy making the customer’s latte and Stan is ringing him up, eyeing Ford with a frown. Ford carefully hands the paper sleeve to the customer then ducks behind the swinging door that leads to the backroom.  He’s talking to their father and he wants to show him his due deference. However, it’s starting to get busy in The Press Room and he doesn’t want to leave his brother and friend hanging.

He quickly gives his father a rundown of how he’s been doing in school as well as how Stanley’s doing at his various jobs. As always, Filbrick shows very little interest in either son. Each of his replies are a short grunt or a bored ‘uh huh’. Mr. and Mrs. Pines usually call their sons about once a month – almost always exclusively on Ford’s phone. Neither of them seems particularly interested in how either of their children is doing – although out of the two of them, Mrs. Pines does a better job of sounding like she _actually_ cares.

But this time the duty has clearly fallen to their father and he’s obviously (ironically) ‘phoning it in’. Stan sticks his head into the back, voice terse, “Hey, Ford? We’ve gotta line.”

Ford covers the mouth piece of the cell, “Yeah, yes – of course. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll be right out, promise!”

“That Pops on the phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, okay, cool – hey, can you tell him he can go fuck himself?” Stan offers as casually as if he’s asking Ford to tell him to have a good day. Ford’s eyes grow wide and his hand falls slightly, “Stanley!”

Ford hears a little muted response from his father and he goes back to the phone, “Ah, no, nothing – it was just Stanley.” He gets an annoyed ‘who?’ in response and Ford lets out a pained sigh, “Stanley, your other son.”

This is met with an acknowledging grumble and Ford finishes up their conversation, letting him know he has to get back to work. He comes out to see that there is indeed a pretty hefty line. However, once they’re all together, the trio of Stan, Ford, and Fiddleford is a force to be reckoned with. They push out lattes, frappuccinos, and coffee cup after coffee cup with little to no difficultly. Scones, muffins, biscottis, and tarts are just as easily dispensed and eventually the line dwindles away to nothing – the afternoon rush finished.

With no more customers milling about the front, Stan can finally talk to Ford, “So, what did the old man have to say?”

“Not much, he was just checking in,” Ford frowns, “You shouldn’t have said that earlier, he could have heard you.”

“Good. I want him to hear me.”

“Stan!” Ford gasps and Fidds looks between the two of them, “What’d Stan say?”

“I said he could go F himself,” Stan censors himself, just in case someone is listening in and Fidds’s eyebrows rise, “Well then, see your relationship with your daddy is still going as to be expected.”

“It’s _not_ to be expected,” Ford argues and Stan shoots him a glare but undeterred, he continues, “Nor should it be tolerated. Our father isn’t the most loving person,” Stan lets out a loud ‘HA!’ at that but Ford doesn’t stop, “but he _is_ our father and we should show him a modicum of respect.”

“Respect?” Stan spits out and Ford rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. He _really_ doesn’t want to have this argument again. Still, “He’s made some mistakes but he provides for us. I thanked him again for paying for our phones.”

“Oh yeah,” Stan mutters, tugging at his apron, his anger very clear, “Because paying for our phones makes up for _everything_.”

“Don’t be an ass!” Ford snips and Fidds looks between the two brothers like he’s watching a very interesting tennis match. Ford just delivered his shot so now it’s to Stan, who bounces back with a tart, “Sixer, you’re honestly going to stand there and tell me paying for our cell phone bill makes up for all the shi-” he stops, corrects himself in light of customers, “sugar he’s done to us? To _you_?”

Stan’s particular word choice throws Ford a little and his anger recedes some, a smile twitching about his mouth, “Sugar?”

“You know what I mean.”

Another sigh and Ford tugs at his own apron, “Yes, I do. But…he’s trying, you know? Him and Mom both.”

“I’m not worried about Ma! She didn’t do what he did!”

Ford’s expression is instantly exhausted, “Stan, for the millionth time…just… let it go. Alright? It was a long time ago.”

Stan shakes his head, tongue roving over the top of his teeth, “Not to me.”

An awkward air settles in and Fidds looks at his feet, tips of his ears pink. Fidds knows. He’s been their friend too long not to. That and Stan got really wasted one night and told him. At first, Ford had been embarrassed and angry – it wasn’t really Stan’s story to tell. But in some ways, he’s glad Fidds knows. It makes him an excellent mediator, which he does now, “Stan, ya want’a take a step outside, get some air?”

He shakes his head, “No. I’ll go get the restock.”

Stan goes into the back and Fidds turns his attentions to Ford, “You okay?”

Ford just shrugs and Fidds pats his arm. A sudden thought occurs to Ford and, with Stan out of earshot, he turns to Fidds, doing his best to sound nonchalant, “Hey, Fiddleford?”

This question is met with a hum, Fidds’s thoughts directed to the counter he’s wiping down. Ford clears his throat, “I, ah, was wondering…do…do you think Stan and I are…too close?”

Fidds stops and looks at him, “Why you asking?”

“Well, Preston said-”

“Oh lordy!” Fidds starts wiping up again, chuckling, “So, that’s what that scrap last Friday was about?”

“He said Stan’s songs are about me,” Ford squeaks out and Fidds looks at him, unmoved, “Yeah, and?”

“You think that too!?”

“Well, some of them songs are about you, sure,” He says as if this isn’t groundbreaking, “But that ain’t a bad thing.”

“A bad-? They’re…love songs.”

“Not all of ‘em.”

“Fidds – I don’t think you understand what kind of love songs I’m talking about…”

A huff escapes his friend, “I know I’m from the southern hills, Stanford, but I ain’t no simpleton! Have you know, you’re IQ and mine are about neck and neck, so, yes - I know exactly what love you’re talking about and whether or not Stan’s written them about you isn’t something I can rightly answer. I can have my suspicions, but if’n you really want to know, you’d have to ask him yourself.”

“Okay, but, do you-?” Ford can’t even continue. He feels like his mind is short circuiting with each word Fiddleford is saying. His friend is approaching this so simply, “Are you saying you…approve?”

The look he gets is one that suggests that Fiddleford thinks he’s a very special child, “Y’all don’t need my approval. Point in fact; you don’t ever be needing anybody’s. Never go looking for others approval, Stanford. That way lies madness. Do not judge, lest ye be judged – my Momma used to quote that to me from her Bible all the time, so I make it my business never to point fingers. That said; you and your brother have always done right by me.”

“I’ve told you all before – I never had many friends back home on accounta people not quite knowing what to make of me. I couldn’t be a good ol’ boy like the rest of ‘em, my brains too big for that – but they couldn’t discount me either, ‘cause my family’s so big and gotta lotta pull. Coming out here, meeting you two – it was a breath of fresh air – for once I could be appreciated for me just being myself.”

“As such, I owe you two a lot. I love and respect ya both in equal measure and I’d support you no matter what. ‘Sides, love between two consenting adults shouldn’t never be viewed as a crime – this world is too small and dark and petty for that. You find something worth a hot damn that ain’t terrible, you should grab it with both hands and never let go.”

And with that, Fidds goes back to working as if he hasn’t just laid out a large, moving speech. Hell, Ford thinks that may be the most his friend has ever talked ever. Fidds tends to be the quiet, thoughtful type. Not the sort to, as he would put it, ‘go pontificating up on the mount’. But here he’d pretty much told Ford that if Stan really did have feelings for him – less than brotherly feelings – that it’s okay. And same for if Ford has those feelings for Stan.

But this is the crux of the whole issue. Ford doesn’t know exactly how he feels. Logically, from a societal mores stand point, he knows he should be horrified or disgusted but he…isn’t? If anything he’s…curious. No doubt it’s his scientific mind at work – he recognizes that most romantic and sexual interactions are chemical in nature. Attraction is just science. Just biology.

For his part, Ford has been attracted to a variety of people on and off. His first crush, as best as he can recall, was on Mae Carol Jemison. A beautiful, strong, physician and NASA astronaut. What more could you want? In fact, he still thinks she’s one of the most gorgeous women he’s ever seen.

But he doesn’t appreciate women alone – there have been brief fantasies with Robert Boyle and Isaac Netwon – long dead, true, but the images of them with long, flowing hair has always struck him as comely. Also, there was a brief period of time where he was slightly enamored with Fiddleford himself, although this eventually just gave way to their deep friendship.

He’s never questioned finding both genders pleasing – in fact, he completely accepts his fluidity. Stanley, however, for as long as he known – has only shown interest in women. There was Carla, of course, and most women he lays eyes on he remarks as being ‘foxy’. He’s never seen Stan show much interest in men, but maybe he just wasn’t paying enough attention. After all, according to everyone else, Stan apparently has a yen for him. He could have discounted Preston (maybe, eventually) but now with Fidds two cents, he’s not so sure.

If anything, Ford realizes he should approach this not only with caution, but with an impartial eye. He should investigate this through deductive reasoning – be completely analytical. It’s like an experiment – he can’t make any hypothesis without first gathering the proper amount of data. Nodding to himself, mind made up, he begins to focus on helping Fidds straighten up behind the counter.

Stan emerges from the back with a large tray of pastries, the earlier angry wind clearly gone from him. He carefully refills the glass case as the front door bell jingles and Toby wobbles in. The trio had long come to the consensus that their boss doesn’t walk, so much as wobble. He’s low to the ground and carries an unfortunate face (it reminds them all of a Halloween mask) but he’s not too bad to work for – in fact he spends most of his time in his office, minding his own business and lets the shift managers run the shop.

However, every now and then, he gets an idea going and seems fixated on it. Most recently it’s been the Friday night jam session. He wasn’t present for the first one – his mother having sadly taken ill – but he’s clearly been informed about it as he looks at Stan, his voice that disconcerting whine, “Stanley?”

“Yeah, boss?”

Toby fiddles with a rolled up newspaper in his hand, “Word is, you got into a tussle with the Northwest boy.”

“Um, yes,” Stan returns; voice soft and it’s clear he’s worrying about the repercussions. Ford worries as well. Stan’s been fired from jobs before and it’s never been pleasant for either one of them. Ford can’t stand to see that beaten look on his brother’s face and Stan can’t stand having so utterly failed at something. Both of them grow anxious, wondering what exactly Toby will say. Fidds, for his part, seems coolly collected.

“Well, young man, those kinds of shenanigans can’t take place here, do you understand?”

Stan’s shoulders slump, “Yes.”

He starts to take off his apron and Toby frowns, “What are you doing?”

Stan’s hands freeze, “Aren’t…aren’t you, uh, letting me go?”

“Letting you go? Heavens, no!” Toby returns squeakily, “Why would I do that? Your fight brought more attention to this place than the music did! And I hear you did a fine job with that as well! Customers have been calling me off the hook asking if you have an EP – which I thought was highly inappropriate but-!”

“Why would asking if he has an extended player album be inappropriate?” Fidds asks and Toby’s eyes widen, “Ohhhh! So, _that’s_ what an EP means? I thought it was slang for penis!”

Stan, Ford, and Fidds all collectively shudder – never having wanted to hear that particular word leave their boss’s mouth. Toby seems unmoved, “I don’t know what kind of words you kids are using these days! Regardless, your music and your fight made waves! I would never dream of getting rid of you now! Just…know that the fights aren’t something I can afford to have here. The music I have no problems with, but despite the attention it garners, the fisty-cuffs have to go!”

Stan reties his apron, beaming, “Sure thing, Toby!”

“Alright! Then I can count on you to play this Friday as well?”

“You bet!” Stan says and his expression is one of such joy that Ford feels himself smiling as well. Toby nods, “Good! Well then, I’ll be in my office!”

Toby leaves and Stan starts whistling (badly) as Fidds nudges him, “Looks like you’ve become quite the rock star. Think next week I can play with ya or are ya too big for your britches now?”

“Hey, I’m all about you bringing in that banjo. We’ll be like Mumford and Sons. You can be Mumford and Ford and me’ll be the sons.”

Ford laughs, “And just what the hell am I supposed to play?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Cowbell? Oh, no! Wait! I got it! I GOT IT! TRIANGLE!” Stan busts out and Ford smacks his arm. The two of them start horsing around and Fidds rolls his eyes, scratching lazily at his beard, “Good lord, what am I supposed to do with you boys?”

Neither of them answer, too busy mock wrestling and Stan yet again has Ford in a headlock when Shandra bursts in, face full of fury, “Okay, who’s the wise guy who did the chalkboard advert outside?!”

Fidds licks his lips and looks away, going to clean the cappuccino machine. Stan’s knuckles are lazily rubbing into Ford’s scalp through his beanie but he has the decency to look a little chagrined. Ford can do nothing but cling to Stan’s strong arms and struggle weakly – huffing and laughing from his current position. Shandra marches behind the counter, eyes on the ceiling as she lightly curses under her breath in Spanish before clapping her eyes on both of them, “Why do I even ask? Stanley, stop writing the chalkboard adverts!”

“Why?” Stan asks as if he doesn’t know and Shandra glares at him, “Because it’s unacceptable!”

“You say that every time I do the advert.”

“That’s because every time you write it, it’s not fit for the public!”

“It draws customers in.”

“Okay, but what kind of customers, Stanley?” Shandra crosses her arms, posture stiff.

“Um…cool ones?”

“No, try again.”

“Aw, come on, Shandra! They come in, they pay – that’s all that matters, right?”

“Stanley, your sign reads ‘sex sells, unfortunately we sell coffee’!” her tone is brisk with disapproval, but it doesn’t matter. The moment she quotes it, Stan releases Ford so he can laugh. Ford is also laughing, hands on his knees and even Fidds is smirking. Seeing Fidds, Shandra rounds on him, “This is your fault, you know! _You’re_ the shift manager, you should tell him not to write stuff like that!”

“Aw, it’s not harming nobody,” Fidds argues, “And Stan’s right, it does attract attention and attention attracts customers. Boy’s creative. Not gonna fault him for it. ‘Sides, he’s the only one to volunteer.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Shandra groans and she looks to Ford, “I don’t know why you can’t do something, Stanford. You’re very artistic. I’ve seen your work on your Tumblr.”

Stan looks at Ford with some surprise, “Shandra’s allowed to see your art? I have to damn near pull out your teeth to see it!”

“She has one,” Ford confesses shyly, “I told her about mine one time when we were working together and we just sort of started mutually following one another.”

She nods, “I blog important news pieces. Items about social injustice and society. Your brother blogs about,” she shudders, “fandom.”

“Hey, I blog about other stuff too! Breakthroughs in science and technology, excellent photography-”

“You also blog _porn_ ,” she hisses the last word under her breath so no customers will hear, but she has a wicked smile on her face and one raised eyebrow, “You also draw an excellent amount of it. The last one about the variety of sex positions two men can engage in was _very_ informative.”

Stan looks at Ford, eyes wide, “That’s not the one you showed me.”

Ford’s face is bright red and he is screaming internally, “I-I draw a lot of different things! It- _agh_! It doesn’t matter! That wouldn’t be appropriate for the adverts either!”

“I’m not suggesting you draw _dicks_ on it,” she says evenly before begrudgingly adding, “Even if you _are_ good at that! No! I’m saying you can draw something nice! Like a steaming pumpkin spice latte or fall leaves or a loaf of banana bread or anything – _anything_ would be better than what Stanley’s scribbles on there. Do you want me to do a highlight reel of what he’s written?”

“Oh, please do,” Fidds encourages and Shandra starts ticking them off on her fingers, “‘A yawn is a silent scream for coffee’, ‘I need a lot of coffee to start the day and a lot of booze to end it’, ‘coffee helps you do stupid things faster’-”

Shandra can’t say anymore because all three men are in hysterics. She sucks in a heavy breath and throws her hands up, “Oh, never mind! You are all hopeless! I’m going to go clock in and get my apron on!”

She leaves and Fidds regards Ford thoughtfully, “So…you draw men in flagrante delicto?”

Clearly the color is not going to leave Ford’s face anytime soon. He was hoping the subject would veer away from his art. He also curses his paler complexion. From working out in the sun on various construction jobs, Stan always has a bit of a tan. Ford, being more indoors than not, thanks to school – is damn near alabaster. An alabaster that easily ratchets up to bright hues of pink and red when he’s embarrassed, “Geez! That’s not _all_ I draw! Why is that all you guys think I do? I’ve done some nice pieces where everyone’s wearing their clothes and cuddling or kissing or holding hands or-or-”

“Now calm down,” Fidds touches his shoulder, “Just makin’ conversation! An if’n that’s true, you really should consider doing the board sometimes. Your brother’s got his talents in music, yours in art,” he snaps his fingers, “Matter of fact, you should rightly consider doing a cover for his EP!”

“What?” Both twins say in unison and Fidds chuckles, “Well, Toby said it himself. Customers are asking if Stanley’s got an EP. You should make one! Good way to earn a little extra something. Stan, you record it – Ford, you make the cover.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Stan crows but Ford looks apprehensive, “How are we going to make an EP?”

“Sure there’s some recording equipment somewheres on campus,” Fidds says, “You an’ me just gots to find it, work something out.”

Ford bites the inside of his cheek, “I-well-I _suppose_ we could!”

“Awesome! High six?” Stan offers and Ford smacks his hand. He turns to Fidds, “High six?”

Fidds smacks Stan’s hand and he pumps his fist, “Victory, man! We should celebrate! Who’s up for playing some Halo at our place when we get off?”

“Think I might be able to do that. Pretty sure Susie’s working a double tonight,” Fidds reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone to check, “My poor sweet girl.”

Stan nudges him in the ribs, “That’s sure going good and strong.”

His friend looks bashful but says nothing. Stan, however, continues, “Can’t believe you nabbed yourself sucha classy girl, Fiddleford! And she could of’ve been mine!”

“Yes, because you really won her over when we first met her at the diner and you said ‘your eye is weird, let’s talk about that.’” Ford mutters and then he realizes what he just said.

He stands up straighter as his words sink in and he feels…a jolt. Of something. He doesn’t know what exactly and he realizes that this is one of those moments he’s been missing. He’s always been too distracted to notices these things. These pivotal words and actions that leave him and Stanley both. These…suggestible things. But now, being more aware, he realizes how they must sound.

He also realizes he feels…upset? Why? Because Stan said he could have dated Susan? Why would he care? Shouldn’t he _want_ his brother to date someone? He had wanted him to date Carla…right? He tries to recall his mindset at the time. Tries to remember how he first reacted when Stan mentioned the girl, but he can’t put much more thought into it because Fidds pipes up, “Susie’s got beautiful eyes. Both of ‘em is perfect as perfect can be.”

Susan, who’s dubbed ‘Lazy’ Susan by many, has an unfortunate case of amblyopia. No treatment seems to help and Susan has long since accepted it as her lot in life. She goes to the local community college and frequently works at a Diner that the trio stumbled into late one night…or had it been early morning?

Ford can't really remember much about it, other than he'd been agonizing over a midterm and Fidds had been doing his best to reassure him that everything would be fine. Stanley, for his part, was in between jobs and had his own troubles, wondering where his next paycheck would come from. This was before any of them had found employment at The Press Room, so at the time this had been a heavy issue.

Susan served them and Stan opened with his terrible one liner. Ford had had his head in his hands, moaning aloud different possible scenarios that could happen during the midterm – each one more horrific and implausible than the last. And Fiddleford? He'd looked at Susan with stars in his eyes and said not one word.

She poured them coffee and brought them pancakes and the moment they left the Diner, check paid, Fidds had looked at both Ford and Stan and said, very quietly, “I just met my future wife.”

The twins laughed it off but found that, soon enough, Fidds was making them take trip after trip to the Diner. Sometimes they didn’t even have any money to get anything at all. They’d just sit in a booth – glasses of water all around, Susan always serving them and Fidds would just…look at her. Chin in his hands, eyes big and doleful. Stan kept trying to encourage him to ask her out but Fidds couldn’t seem to work up the gumption.

Finally, one night, Susan came to their table and greeted them as she always did, warmly, and with a soft laugh, “Hello, Mystery Trio. What’ll it be this time?”

She nicknamed them the ‘Mystery Trio’ not long after they started showing up each and every night – not saying much about themselves other than their names and their orders. Well, save Stanley, who would try lame pick up line after lame pick up line and…now that Ford thinks about it…he actually used a lot of those lame pick-up lines on Ford first…as if…testing them out.

And Ford always laughed…always found them cute.

Still, Susan always blew Stan off and this particular night, before they could answer with what they wanted, she looked right at Fidds and said, “Maybe I can make a suggestion?”

Fidds nodded at her and – for that moment – it was as if only the two of them were in the Diner.

“I suggest my phone number,” she wrote it down on her sever tab and handed it to him, cheeks pink as she lifted her lazy eyelid to wink at him. She wandered off and Fidds clutched the tab to his chest, cloud nine achieved. And ever since then, they've been an inseparable couple. Unless, of course, Susan has to work – which she does tonight. Hence a Fidds free to come back to their apartment.

Edwin and Daryl come through the door, arriving to start their shifts. Shandra comes out and Fidds turns to her, “We free to go?”

She gives a swift nod but curls a finger at Stanley, beckoning him towards her, “In a minute, gotta fix one thing first.”

Stan’s eyebrows rise and he walks over towards her. Shandra grabs a nearby chair and pulls it up in front of her, “Have a seat.”

“Whoa! Shandra! We doin’ this now?! I mean, I always knew this’d happen one day, but I’m surprised you want to do this in front of everybody.”

“Shut up and sit down,” she grumbles and Stan gleefully does as told. Ford frowns, wondering what exactly is going to happen. He’s also starting to recognize that the feeling he had earlier in regards to Stan and Susan is now paling in comparison to this. Shandra does look like a super model. Stan’s called her ‘foxy’ more times than Ford can count, and he’s being awfully flirty and does he really think one day he and Shandra-

“Hey, you okay?” Fidds asks, cutting off Ford’s rapid fire thinking. He blinks, scratching at the back of his head, “Oh! Yeah, uh, fine…”

Fidds doesn’t look too convinced but he turns his attention back to Shandra and Stan. Shandra stands behind Stan and runs her fingers through his hair, clucking her tongue, “God, your hair is ridiculously long.”

“Your point?”

“You need to cut it. Or do something about it. Bad enough Fidds’s got his beard all bushy and getting longer by the day – now here you are with your ‘rocker’ hair.”

“Ford’s got long hair.”

“Nowhere near as long as yours. His is more…fluffy,” Ford interjects an insulted ‘Hey!’ at this, but Shandra ignores him, “and at least he wears a beanie about twenty four seven. Whereas you, mister, need to do something with this when you’re at work, so” Shandra draws an elastic hair tie off one wrist and takes handfuls of Stan’s thick hair. She gently tugs it back, forming a serviceable ponytail on the top of his head. Once done she nods to herself, “There. Much better. At least until you get it cut.”

Stan stands up and walks over to one of the more shiny coffee machines to try and catch his reflection. He looks at the tiny ponytail and beams, “Hey! Alright! This is lookin’ pretty good!”

He moves over towards his brother, standing before him, “Ford? What do you think?”

Ford reaches out, gently tugging on some of the longer bits of hair that still curl near Stan’s neck, “I like it!”

Stan grins and Ford looks into his face and it’s as if time slows to a crawl. Ford feels a flash of heat quake in the pit of his belly and once more, it’s like he’s on the outside looking in. He did this without thinking. He’s touching his brother this way without-without finding it odd or unusual. He’s playing with his _hair_. And his fingers sort of drift down, trailing along the skin of Stan’s neck and then over his collarbone and along his shirt near his chest and he can feel the warmth of his brother’s body through his clothes, can feel his pulse, his heartbeat and-

“I like it,” Ford repeats, tone slightly squeaky, pulling his hands away as if Stan’s just burned him, looping his arms tightly behind his back.

If Stan notices, he doesn’t react, instead chuckling and turning to Fidds, “What do you think, buddy?”

Fidds just nods. Shandra pushes the chair back to its rightful spot and both Edwin and Daryl come out in their aprons. Stan and Fidds seem ready to heads towards the back when suddenly Stan turns to Shandra, “Hey, about that Northwest turd.”

“I take it you are referring to Preston?”

“Yeah. My bro is really worried he’s gonna sue or somethin’.”

She lets out a heavy breath, “You would like me to tell you if that’s a true possibility?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” she gives him a little smile, “Despite his claims, Preston’s jaw was _not_ broken. And considering you…sort of held the upper hand in the situation, he didn’t like the idea of going to the authorities.”

“You saying he was embarrassed that I kicked his ass?”

She gives a nod and Stan softens, speaking seriously, “You know, you can do better, Shandra.”

“Who says I’m still dating him?” she offers with a hair flip, “Besides, I told him it could have been worse. Fiddleford could have gotten involved.”

Stan lets out a loud laugh, “Oh man! What’d he say to that?”

“Something along the lines of how he couldn’t see a backwards hick like Fiddleford giving him a problem.”

Stan tugs Fidds close to him and points at him, “That when you lay it on him about how our Fidds is a regular bad ass?”

Fiddleford pulls his shades out of one of the back pockets of his slacks, putting them on, “I have no idea to what you refer, Stanley Pines.”

“Bullshit,” Stan laughs and he releases his friend. He looks at Edwin and Daryl, jerking a thumb in Fidds direction, “Do you know this guy’s like, a crave magwa master?”

This is met with a moan from Fiddleford, “It’s krav maga, Stanley and yes, I will admit I am rather skilled at it as well as several other forms of self-defense.”

“You mean martial arts, ass kicking skills!”

“I _mean_ self-defense,” Fidds argues, “I do not plan on using any of my trained skills unless I have to. Now, we clocking out or what? I could go for some dinner and some Halo.”

“Aw yeah! Gonna have some macaroni and cheese tonight!” Stan boasts as he and Fidds go into the back to clock out. Ford, however, has yet to unfreeze. He’s still thinking about how he was touching Stan. Thinking about how Stan talking about girls made him feel…

…god, had he been…envious?

Ford unfolds his arms and looks at his fingertips. Fingertips that touched Stanley. He curls the fingers in and squeezes them tight, shaking his head before he too, ducks into the back to clock out.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Child abuse, alcohol, smoking, tobacco chewing

They were eleven years old when it happened.

For the most part, Stanley and Stanford Pines's childhood had been normal. Or at least, what they had always viewed as normal. Their mother worked from home, so she had more time to dote upon them. In many ways, she raised them single-handedly. She prepared them brown bagged lunches, made sure they caught the bus, and picked them up from school early if they were sick. She tucked them in and kissed their foreheads and hugged them. For all intents and purposes, she was a good mother.

Then there was their father.

He worked long hours in the Pawn Shop he owned downstairs, the one beneath their home. He was a man of few words, hard to impress, and the twins knew next to nothing about him. In fact, their mother always made sure to warn them before their father closed the shop for the day and came upstairs that they were to be quiet, to be seen and not heard.

“Your father works very hard all day,” she’d say, “So, when he comes home, he wants to relax.”

She never said it, but it was widely evident that the only way he could _truly_ relax was if the children were silent. They had had trouble with this when they were very young – it was hard to keep a lid on either of them before they turned six. It was around this age that they both started to regard their fatherly figure with some trepidation – and sometimes, outright fear.

He would slam the door shut behind him on particularly bad days, grumbling under his breath, and to their eyes he seemed to lumber in like an angry giant, stomping around. Their mother would rush to intercept him, would do her best to lighten his black mood with gentle comments and the occasional peck on the cheek. But even once the darker aspects fell away, he was still an unapproachable individual.

He hid behind his dark shades and his gruff, short one word answers. He barely paid any attention to either Stan or Ford. Oh, occasionally he would ask how their day was. And he saw they received birthday gifts and Christmas gifts and the like. But he never seemed…invested. To him, it was as if his sons were just…there.

Furthermore, considering the stern warnings they received from their mother, his sons did their best not to pay him too much mind. They followed his rules and respected his laws, but they rarely met his eyes and there were never any signs of affection. In fact, the very idea of _hugging_ Filbrick Pines seemed completely alien in nature.

Still, they managed to exist (relatively) harmoniously with one another until that fateful day.

They had turned eleven just a couple of days ago and the Pawn Shop had been having financial troubles. As such, every day before Filbrick came home Stan and Ford were instructed to stick to their room until their mother came for them – giving them the ‘coast is clear’ smile. A strained smile, to be sure, but they at least felt comfortable enough to come out for dinner – which they made sure to eat in resolute silence.

Out of the two of them – Stanley was the one chaffing the most against the reigns of their upbringing. He was constantly questioning why they had to tip toe around, why they had to be quiet, and while Ford agreed with him, he argued that they should respect their elders.

“When we’re older,” Ford argued, “We can do whatever we want, whenever we want. Ask all the questions, solve all the mysteries – but for now I think it’s best if we just keep our heads down.”

And Stan had been in total agreement with him when he’d gone through what he dubbed as his ‘wimpy’ phase. This was one of the rare moments in time where Filbrick expressed interest in one of his offspring – he had concluded early on that Stanley was the ‘weaker’ of the two. Since Ford had his brains, Stan needed something and so it was decided (by Filbrick) that that something should be punches. He forced his son into boxing lessons and while Stan hated it at first he found – eventually – that he was rather adept at it.

No doubt due to his pent up aggression.

An aggression that clearly came from the very father who pushed him into the classes in the first place. Again, this aggression became quite evident on the day in question. As previously stated, Stan was restless with their lot in life and he wanted to prove their value – prove how they were growing up and how they should be free to think for themselves, do for themselves – how they were finally that fabled ‘older’ Ford always talked about that signified that they could do whatever they wanted.

Much to their chagrin, their mother was not home. She had had to go visit their Gam Gam, who’d fallen ill. Filbrick damn near came close to ordering his wife to take the kids with her, but she stood her ground – she didn’t want the children to see their Gam Gam this way. He was their father; he could take care of them – at least for _one_ weekend.

The first night, Filbrick came upstairs, tossed a bag of fast food burgers on the counter and told them to eat up. Stan and Ford did as commanded and the evening proved to be something of a success. It was the next evening where everything fell apart. Unbeknownst to Stan and Ford, their father had had a particularly rough day downstairs – far rougher than usual and, knowing his wife would not be upstairs to comfort him, he took to going to the bar down the street to drink his troubles away.

He always valued himself as a man more than capable of holding his liquor and therefore indulged himself in tumbler after tumbler of whiskey. Stan and Ford, not knowing where their parent was, took to feeding themselves. They made sandwiches from what they could muster out of the fridge and took up a spot in front of the television in their room.

At the time, the Pines family had only one television set. Being madly frugal, the Pines’s television was no lightweight device. It was a big, hulking monstrosity from an earlier age. However, it performed all the requirements of a normal television – so there was no question as to replacing it. It would not be replaced until its bulb burnt out or some other calamity befell it. And there were no discussions about getting more than one set, because both Filbrick and his wife felt the device proved to be a bad distraction. Best to have just one and keep it in one place.

Normally, it resided in the living room but, for their birthday, the set had been moved into the twin’s room. Their mother was supposed to move it back to its normal location before she left, but in the haste to get to her family, this slipped her mind. While the other night had been relatively calm, Filbrick made some back handed comments while they ate their burgers about how he wished the television was back where it was supposed to be, and this is what led Stan to his idea.

After he and Ford ate their sandwiches, Stan said, “Hey, I got an idea.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I was thinking me and you could put the TV back.”

Ford’s eyebrows knitted together and he looked at the large, heavy television before them, “I don’t know.”

“Aw, come on! Between the two of us, it’ll be no problem!”

“But why do you want to move it? Don’t you like having it here?”

“I do, but the other night Pops kept complaining about how he wanted the TV back and I was thinkin’ that maybe if we did it, he’d be, y’know, impressed with us.”

Ford’s eyebrows rose, “You’ve never seemed concerned with impressing our father before.”

“Well, I mean,” Stan looked sheepish, “I’m still not, but I think if we did it, he’d like – see how we’re growing up and maybe ease up on us a little. See that we’re becoming men.”

Ford’s lips twitched and he eyed the television. He rubbed at his chin, “I-I suppose we could…”

“And it’d save Ma a chore!” Stan encouraged, “Come on, Ford. We’ll work together and get it done in no time!”

Ford nodded and the twins started moving the television set. They carried it between them, but it proved far heavier than it looked. They struggled with the sheer weight of it and just as they rounded the corner to enter the living room the doorknob to the front door jangled noisily. Startled, Ford lost his grip and Stan, unable to bear the weight, couldn’t keep his hold. The television fell to the ground, face first, smashing into the hardwood floor.

The very ground beneath their feet shook with the forceful weight of it and they both froze, turning pale, eyes as big as saucers as the door opened and their father stood there. He looked at each of them and then looked down at the destroyed television between them. His face, which was already rosy with drink, became a molted, frightening mask of fury, “Wha’ th’ HELL did you two jus’ DO?!”

His voice was a slurred bellow and they both shrank back from it. Stan tried to speak first, voice quivering with terror, “Pops, I-I can explain-!”

“Did you two lil’ BASTARDS jus’ break my GODDAMN TV!” he snarled and he slammed the door behind him so hard the very frame trembled. Stan and Ford both swallowed, eyes immediately downcast, cold sweat beading all over their bodies and it was in this moment that everything changed. Because this was the moment that Ford looked up and breathed, “It-It was my idea.”

Stan’s head whipped up and he looked at his brother, speechless, as Ford continued to look at their father and-and _lie_ , “I thought it’d be-be nice for you and Ma if-if we helped and-and-”

His words cut off as Filbrick charged over. He took a tight, harsh grip of Ford’s left arm and shook him about roughly, body weaving about, voice a liquor-laced hiss, “NICE?! You thought it’d be nice?!”

Ford winced, flinching away, “I just…I just wanted to do something. I thought we could handle it, I knew you wanted the TV back, but-”

“But what? Couldn’t wait fer your mother? For me? Is that it, smart guy? Huh? IS THAT IT!” he tossed Ford about more and Ford let out a tiny cry, his arm being twisted in his father’s unforgiving grip, “Y’ think yer so goddamn _SMART_ , don’t you, you six-fingered little-!”

“Stop it! _STOP IT_!” Stan cried out, voice shrill and high in fear as he leapt at his father but Filbrick easily deflected his son’s weak attempts to pull him away from Ford. Instead he managed to get a handful of Stan’s shirt collar and dragged both of his children towards their bedroom. He pushed Stan into the room with little to no grace and then slammed the door shut behind him, he yanked on the knob and it came loose enough that Stan was locked in.

Stan, in full blown panic, started throwing himself at the door – beating upon it and calling out to his father, to Ford, trying to stop whatever was about to happen. But it was too late – their father was far too gone in his rage and in drink to stop himself. He tugged Ford back into the living room. He thrust him back against the coach and, mumbling under his breath, he undid his belt. It was a large, leather belt – the buckle big, silver and hefty.

Ford felt frozen with fear as, for the first time in a long time, his father tossed off his shades and revealed his eyes. His dark, bloodshot eyes and he glared with a glassy intensity at his son, “Gonna show you like m’ Dad did me. Think y’re so smart…take off y’r shirt, turn’around.”

“Dad, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-!”

“DO IT!”

Ford turned and, shivering all over, he did as he was told. The first lash of the belt was so startling and sharp that Ford could only lurch forward, eyes wide. The second hit had far more force behind it and he couldn’t help the sound that tore out of him. There was a third, a fourth, a fifth and then it was – ironically – the sixth that did the true damage. In his inebriated state, Filbrick didn’t have a good hold on the belt. It slipped and slid in his grip and on the sixth blow, the belt buckle flew out – the metal clasp with it – and it tore deeply into Ford’s back, deeply marring his spine. It was this strike where Ford actually screamed. Before this he had done his best to keep his cries stifled, but the pain he experienced with this hit was too much. It was like fire leaching its way throughout the web work of his veins, he felt it all over – from the top of his head, to the bottom of his feet.

And it was this hit that knocked Filbrick out of his drunken wrath. The sight of bright red blood on his son’s small, pale back – the deep laceration – made him stop. He stumbled, dropping the belt as if it had caught flame. He rubbed a heavy hand over his mouth, collapsing to his knees, “Oh god, oh _Christ_ …what’ve I done?!”

The words left him in a shaky, broken warble but Ford didn’t hear them. Instead he did his best to try and stop crying, to stop sobbing – dry heaves leaving him, hands rubbing at his arms. When his father came closer he shrank in deeper on himself. He fell to the ground and cradled himself, so scared. He didn’t know it was possible to even be this scared and he started rocking, knees raised in front of his face and his back – god, his back _hurt_. It hurt so _much_.

“Stanford,” his father’s warm breath ruffled his hair, the smell of alcohol rolling off of him, “Oh god, son… _my_ son. I’m so sorry. Sorry, _sorry_ …”

Ford hiccuped and, if it was possible, he became an even tighter ball – aching back be damned. But his father didn’t care, wasn’t deterred, he pulled his son close and did his best to comfort him, did his best to apologize while Stan continued to scream and cry and beat on the door of their bedroom – not knowing what exactly was happening but fearing the absolute worst and the sounds he heard were making his whole body seize with fear.

It was a dark night. It was a long night. It was a night none of them would ever forget.

 

+

Stan thinks of that night every time he sees the scar.

This is probably why Ford does his best to keep it covered at all times. Hell, he wears far more layers than he should because of it. And yes, he also wears a lot of layers because he gets cold easily, but Stan knows the truth. It’s Ford’s way of trying to comfort him, of trying to keep the black cloud from forming over his brother’s head. It's so sad it's funny. _Ford_ is trying to protect _Stan_ from the scar _Ford_ has. He loves Ford for that – he does – but he also knows it’s futile.

There’s no cure for how he feels about the scar and it’s not even his. He’ll never forget being locked in that room. Sometimes he still even has nightmares about it. That door, that barrier; that kept him from his twin. Kept him from protecting the one person he loves more than anyone else. All he could hear were sounds; all he could do was panic. Eventually his father let him out – eventually he calmed down enough to accompany them to the hospital where they told that classic lie.

Ford _fell_. He was playing in the Pawn Shop and he fell back into some various items and cut himself and the doctors bought it because why not? And Stan wanted to scream from the top of his lungs about how that was a lie and how his father was a _monster_ and that wasn't what really happened. But then Ford looked at him with such pleading eyes and Stan just swallowed his tongue and stayed silent.

Sometimes he hates Ford for that. But most of the time he doesn’t, because Ford made such a sacrifice that night. Ford said it was _his_ idea. Ford let himself be-be _hurt_ in Stan’s stead and it guts Stan to this day. Especially considering his true feelings for his sibling. Feelings that always simmer within him, so well hidden – or, at least – he thought well hidden until recently.

Recently Ford seems almost aware. Probably thanks to Preston. Jackass. Just thinking of Northwest makes Stan stab at the buttons on the controller harder – like it can somehow make the gun he’s firing in the game more real. Fidds sits to one side of him, coolly controlling the tiny joystick as he moves into position for a sniper shot. They work in perfect coordination, garnering a steady stream of points while Ford sits on the couch, nose deep in some textbook.

“Hey, Fiddleford?” Ford asks absently.

Fidds answers with a hum.

“Have you finished your outline for our Advanced Engineering class?”

“Yup.”

Ford lets out the huff that tells Stan that he hasn’t finished his and is intensely jealous. Stan lets out a chuckle and Fidds eyes dart to him. Ford gets to his feet, “I’m going to go work on this in the bedroom if you guys need me.”

Ford leaves, the sound of a door closing behind him and Fidds clears his throat, “So, Stanley…”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s come to my attention that your brother’s worried about the closeness of y’alls relationship.”

Stan rolls his eyes and jabs at the buttons even harder, “Yeah, I know. Apparently Northwest opened his big yap and talked some crap and now Ford’s questioning our involvement or something. Like there’s anything to question.”

“You’re saying there isn’t?”

Stan feels the hair on the back of his neck rise, but he ignores it, “No. We’re _brothers_. That’s all.”

“Brothers,” Fidds repeats but the way he says it makes a wave of heat wash up Stan’s face and his fingers slip a little, making his character on screen move about awkwardly. He gets a hold of himself and tries to ignore the vague flash of guilt, “Yeah, man.”

Fidds doesn’t say anything again for a long while and their deep into another mission before he quietly murmurs, “Ya know…I’ve known you two a long time…”

Stan feels himself tense up.

“…and I think it’s okay for you to be honest with me.”

“What? I am!”

“Stanley,” this is said in an almost chiding tone and Stan bristles, “Fidds, what the f-!”

Fidds waves one of his hands, cutting off his curse, “Look, ya don’t have ta say it aloud if’n ya ain’t comfortable. I get that. But I’m just sayin’…Ford’s not dumb. I mean, okay, yes – he _is_ a little bit. In his own way. Like - science - forget about it. But people? Total dummy. So, it's no shock he's not seeing what I see and all. But, unfortunately, seems Northwest is seeing it too.”

“S-seeing what?” his voice comes out in a weird, twisted way. Something of a laugh without humor inside of it and Fiddleford just levels him with a look. Stan tugs at the collar of his shirt and looks at the screen. His character has just died. He lets out a groan and drops the controller. He flops down on his back on the carpet and stares up at the ceiling. It’s cool and white and stucco. He looks at it and feels like his cheeks are on fire as he whispers, “It’s nothing.”

“Stanley, all I’m saying is,” Fidds drops off a little here, voice tender and soft, “Ya might be wanting to think about the future and what exactly yer gonna do,” Stan can’t look at him as he continues, “‘Cause while I don’t give a hot damn – some people will. Ya gotta ask yourself whether or not you care about that. Whether or not _he_ will. That’s all I’m saying. Because one way or another…it’s gonna come out. Can’t keep it a secret forever.”

Stan's eyes close and they feel uncomfortably hot. He rubs at them, “Goddamn…I want a cigarette.”

Fidds looks at the closed bedroom door and then gently pats Stan’s leg, “C’mon, follow me.”

Fiddleford goes to the sliding glass door that leads out to the balcony and, eventually, Stan follows. Fidds fishes out one of Stan’s cigarettes from beneath one of the potted plants (much to Stan’s surprise - how does Fidds know he stashes them there?) and then, even more to Stan’s surprise, he reaches up into one of the hanging plants to produce a tiny plastic container, which makes his eyes widen as he realizes what it is, “Holy crap – is that chewing tobacco?”

He gets a nod, “Hard habit not to get growing up where I did. I’m pretty close to quittin’, don’t want this to be the death of me – but figured I’d join you in solidarity. After all, talkin' some pretty heavy stuff.”

This is met with a snort and Stan just lights up. He takes a few drags and shakes his head, not meeting Fidds eyes as he says, “This is weird as hell.”

A silence falls between them until Stan eventually says, “Always wanted someone to confide in about…” he lets out that humorless laugh again, “And now here we are and I don’t have shit to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

Stan shakes his head, “Couldn’t tell you where it started…but that night, you know… _that_ night?”

Fidds nods – he knows.

“That was sort of a start. He was just…so brave. I mean, here we are, couple of kids who don’t know a whole hell of a lot, with this father who’s not much of a winner, and there’s Ford standing up and taking the blame and lettin’ him…lettin’ him…”

He takes another drag and the smoke curls out of his mouth slowly, “And he did it for _me_. He’s never said it, but I _know_ that’s why. Think he was worried the old man’d kill me - state he was in, but he’s always…you know, _seen_ Ford more. So Ford took that bullet, y’know? Let Pops get at him and I’ve never forgiven myself for it or forgiven Pops for it and I know Ford hasn’t forgiven Pops either, but he wants to let it go and I can’t, _I can’t_ …”

Fidds chews his tobacco in silence. Spits it out into one of the plants and scowls. He closes the container, shaking his head, “Think my quittin’s official now. Forgot how awful that stuff tastes.”

“Solidarity over, then?”

“Still support you, but can’t chew anymore of that chaw. Susie's the one who got me to really kick it, you know? Doesn't want me to die from it.”

“Ford’s trying to get me to quit.”

There’s a long stretch between them before Fidds says, “I’ll bet he is.”

“It’s…you know it’s not like you and-and Susie…right?”

Another silence. Finally, “But you want it to be.”

Stan stubs out his cigarette and finally turns to his friend, finally meets his eyes, “I don’t know what the hell to do.”

Fidds lips twitch sadly and he pats Stan’s arm, “The best of us never do.”

“Lotta help you are,” he grumbles and this is met with a laugh when suddenly Fidds’s cell beeps. He checks it and gets that goofy look on his face that tells Stan it’s Susan, “Looks like my girl’s getting off.”

“I take it that means you’ll be taking your leave.”

“If’n you don’t mind.”

“Hey, we got to play Halo, you got to tell me that everyone’s on to my big secret – think we’ve accomplished enough for one night.”

Fidds offers a sympathetic smile, “You got time, Stanley. Just got to make up your mind on what exactly you want to do.”

Fidds turns to leave only to find Ford coming out, his expression stormy, “I smell smoke. AGAIN.”

“That’s my cue to leave,” Fidds says and just as he’s about to dart past Ford, his friend stops him, “Is that chewing tobacco?!”

Fidds looks down to see that he is still holding the chewing tobacco container. He beams and hands it to Ford, “No worries. I quit!”

He dashes off and Ford shakes his head at Stanley, “Tomorrow, we are getting you patches! And you’re not allowed out on this balcony anymore without supervision.”

“Sure thing, Ma.” Stan mutters and Ford smacks him upside the head, “I should make you sleep on the futon again – don’t want that ashtray smell to transfer to me.”

“Yeah, because that worked out for you so well last time. You know, when you caved after a few hours because you got too cold. And because you can’t resist being the little spoon,” he says it on purpose – says it to gauge Ford’s reaction and – sure enough – his brother tenses. Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. Stan takes away the sting, “You should try sticking to your own side of the mattress.”

He doesn’t want that. He _doesn’t_. But maybe it’s what Ford wants? Ford _does_ seem to relax at this, “I will when you stop hogging all the covers.”

And once again everything is normal – or normal like Stan supposes it should be. How Ford probably wants it to be. He lets out a heavy sigh. Fidds is right. It’s somehow come to a boiling point. Stan’s going to have to make a decision. But which one? Run into the hills? Deeper denial? Bigger lies? Or can he possibly risk laying out all his cards on the table?

Or...or should he try again? Try to-to date again? After the disaster with Carla, he’d sworn it off but maybe…maybe if he tries hard enough, he can find someone who can well and truly help him get over his brother. Help him move on. Stan doesn’t know, but one thing is becoming abundantly clear. He’s going to have to do _something_. And soon.


	7. Chapter 7

**What u doin?**

_I’m at my psych class._

**Ur psychic? Ma b proud.**

_My psychology class, you dork._

**How’s it goin?**

_Good – but I should be paying attention and not texting you._

**(** **◕** **︵** **◕)**

_Don’t send me sad emotion icons._

**God. Pls type emoji.**

_No. I refuse._

**U no fun. U need jokes!**

_Stan. NO. I’m trying to pay attention!_

**Clearly u bored or u’d stop. SO! Joke! U hear bout new restaurant on the moon?**

_No. I’m ignoring you._

**Food is great, but there's just no atmosphere.**

_Oh my god – Stanley! Leave me alone!_

**Thinking about moving to Moscow.**

_What?_

**But there’s no point Russian in2 things**

_OH GOD! That was awful! Please stop._

**U don’t want me 2 stop. U textin back 2 quick. Means u want more jokes.**

_That’s not what it means. But I will admit this class is a little stale._

**(ﾉ** **◕ヮ** **◕)**

_What did I just tell you about emotion icons? Why are you sending me this one?_

**U like my jokes. Just admitted u want more.**

_NO. That is NOT what I said! I just said the class isn’t very intellectually stimulating!_

**MEANS U WANT JOKES. U WANT ME 2 MAKE U LOL!**

_Stanley – that is not what I want._

**KK – But how do u organize a space party?**

_What are you talking about?_

**U planet.**

_I swear; I hate you._

**Did you LOL? Y** **eah, bet u did. Bet u lurao**.

_What do those letters even mean?_

**Laughing ur ass off. Bet u make big scene in class.**

_I did not._

**??????**

_Fine. I might have had to clear my throat – from a COUGH. Not a laugh._

≧∇≦

_You’re the worst._

**Lies. Love me.**

Ford stares at the last text like it’s going to leap off the screen and bite him. He’s just left his psychology class, the one where his professor asked if he was alright because he made a loud cough (cough, _cough_ – NOT a choked off laugh) during her lecture. He told her everything was fine and then proceeded to continue to text his brother even though he knew better. But he couldn’t resist. Couldn’t resist chatting with his twin and now this one text is here and it’s just…

Stan means ‘love’ like a brother. Of course he does. Ford’s sure of it. Still, he’s not sure how to respond. Not that he has to, because Stan ends up texting him back first.

**U still in class?**

This is easy for Ford to answer.

_No. I’m done._

**What’s next?**

_Nothing – I have a three hour gap between classes. I might go to the library and work on some of my assignments. What about you?_

**Doing work at lumber yard on Rt 18 w/ Dan. Sweatin.**

Ford’s lips quirk at this and a thought occurs to him.

R _oute 18 isn’t that far from here._

**Yeah – can u c me wavin’ at u?**

Ford chuckles and he finds himself texting back quickly.

_Have you had lunch yet?_

**Nope.**

Ford chews on his bottom lip as a smile starts to form. He could certainly eat. And it would be nice to see Stanley. Mind made up, he dials the Diner Susan works at. He puts in an order for a salad, a meatloaf sandwich, and two canned Pitt sodas to go and then puts his phone away in his messenger bag, walking quickly. He eyes his watch and nods to himself. He should have more than enough time if he hurries.

 

+

 

Much to Ford’s surprise, Susan waits for him at the counter with two brown paper bags. He grins at her, “Hey! I didn’t know you were working!”

“Yeah, they called me in to work this shift,” he hands her some cash and she rings him up, smiling, “Which is great! It means I’ll be off sooner! I can finally have a full evening off with my Fiddles.”

Ford lets out an amused sigh as she hands him his change and he pockets it, “You two and the nicknames.”

“Uh huh, sure thing – _Sixer_ ,” Susan thickly lays on the title and Ford feels his cheeks heat up, “Th-that’s just something Stan calls me.”

“Oh,” Susan crows and she lifts her lazy lid to wink at him, “I know.”

“It’s a _brothers_ thing, Susan. He’s just busting my chops.”

“He also calls you Poindexter,” she adds and he has the grace to look away, feeling slightly anxious. First Preston, then Fiddleford and now Susan. Ford’s starting to feel like he’s really ignorant. But then, he said he wanted to find out the exact nature of his relationship with his sibling. A relationship that he keeps trying to peg as normal, but others are starting to see as something…else. Something more. Susan gets called away to take care of a customer and he gives her a swift wave goodbye as he takes his brown bags and leaves.

He hops on a bus and checks his phone, trying to find out where exactly the lumber yard is. It’s even closer than he thought and he doesn’t even have to ride for very long before he’s where he needs to be. There are a lot of burly men walking about, hefting big planks of freshly cut wood. The smell in the air is oddly intoxicating – clean and crisp but with this metallic tang beneath. He manages to find a worker that isn’t too busy and he asks him where Stan might be.

At first the man doesn’t know who he’s talking about, but once Ford mentions Dan, he nods and points off to the left, telling him Dan’s team is in that direction. Ford thanks him and makes sure to be extra careful as he traverses the area. Workers and dangerous equipment is everywhere, the din of the work close to deafening, and the last thing he wants is to end up in a dicey situation. He looks for Stan but also keeps an eye out for Dan – after all, Dan is pretty hard to miss. He’s a hulk of a man, with a brilliant shock of red hair. Ford’s sure he’ll have no troubles spotting him.

But that’s not who he sees first. Instead it’s Stan. And Stan had said he’d been sweating, but…

Ford freezes, bagged lunches clutched tightly in his hands as he sees Stan…working. Stan is lifting a large beam of wood and he hurls it into the back of a truck. Then he turns and does it again. He bends and Ford just…stares at him. The noises around him seem to fade into nothingness and it’s like all there is, is him and Stanley.

Stan’s back is large and curved – spine a strong bow, arched, as he reaches down – hands big in their gloves and filled with purpose as they take hold of another wooden beam. His thick, muscular thighs are working to support the weight, strong calves flexing and his jeans hug close to his ass-

Ford shakes his head but it doesn’t help. Nothing seems to clear the haze as Stan rises and turns and his arms are bare. Arms that are strong and brawny, a dusting of hair on his shoulders, and he’s wearing a white tank. It’s streaked with dirt – as are his jeans. He has a red handkerchief hanging out of his back pocket and his bright yellow hard hat is firmly in place until he deposits the beam in the truck. After that, he turns and leans against it. He takes the hat off and uses the back of his arm to swipe at his sweat-beaded forehead. His hair is pulled back in a tiny ponytail but he grabs that and tugs it loose.

His dark, thick brown hair falls free – damp and curling and he takes off his work gloves to runs a bare hand through it, making it look more tousled, shaggier. He pulls out the handkerchief and wipes at the back of his neck and then the front and it’s…his skin is tan and his neck is thick, a perfectly sculpted column of corded muscle that bobs as he swallows. Then the handkerchief moves leisurely down to the top of his chest, where the tank scoops slightly and some wiry chest hair peeks out and Ford realizes he apparently stopped breathing about five minutes ago because he lets out a strangled sound, air rushing back into his lungs.

Dan appears and walks up to Stan, he pats his arm and says something into his ear and then Stan turns and looks right at Ford. And he smiles. It’s a big, bright, happy smile and words leave Ford before he can stop them, “Oh fuck.”

The words seem to snap Ford out of it. He hardly ever curses. He blinks and grins back at Stan, waving the bags. He tries to regulate his wild heartbeat as his twin marches over, shouting over the din of the lumber yard, “Hey! I wondered why you didn’t text back!”

The first dumb thing that comes to Ford’s mind slips right out of his mouth, “You have hair on your shoulders.”

“What?!” Stan shouts, Ford’s words lost to the sounds of the lumber yard and Ford is grateful for this as he tries again, saying louder, “How did you even text me? You look like you're working pretty hard!”

He’s glad that the volume in the area is making it so his voice probably sounds pretty close to normal and not at all tumultuous.

“Did it during my fifteen!” Stan eyes the bags and points at them, “Is that lunch?”

He nods, “You said you hadn’t eaten!”

“Awesome! Let me just tell Dan!” Stan jogs over to Dan and Ford just stands there, still feeling dazed and slightly stupid. Stan talks to Dan and the other man nods, so Stan waves a hand to Ford, gesturing him over. Ford comes and Stan leads him away. They walk for quite a while, far from the boisterous work zone.

They end up in an area where the workers clearly set up a haphazard eating area – old, wooden picnic tables with wooden benches attached, port-a-johns within walking distance. Stan hops up on top of one of the tables, legs crossed and he eyes the brown bags with unrestrained hunger. Ford actually sits on one of the benches, shaking his head, “You know, you should really sit at the table. Not on top of it.”

“Yeah, yeah – whatever. Food!”

“Food what?”

Stan rolls his eyes, “Now!”

“I’m sorry, the word I was looking for is 'please’, but we have some lovely parting gifts.”

“Shut up and give me the bag!” Stan mutters but with no heat to it. If anything it’s colored with laughter and Ford chuckles himself, handing him the bag. Stan rips into it with relished glee, “Oh man, oh man! Meatloaf sandwich, chips, and a Pitt? You really do love me!”

Ford’s head snaps up at that. Then he relaxes. Brothers, brothers – he means it as brothers. Right? Right. But Ford’s starting to wonder what it means if he _doesn’t_ mean it that way, and it’s sort of…exciting? A strange, jittery energy takes him and he opens his own lunch, “You’re alright, I guess.”

“What did you say earlier? I couldn’t make it out – something about my shoulders?”

Ford, who had just started to dig into his own lunch, chokes a little on his bite of salad before he manages to mumble, “Oh! Uh, I just…I noticed you had hair on your shoulders.”

Stan looks at his shoulders and shrugs, “Oh yeah, boys here give me shit about that all the time. Say I’ll never get a girl with all this hair.”

 _Good_.

The word leaps to Ford’s mind before he can stop it. He looks down at his salad and feels a lump form in his throat. Holy shit. What the hell kind of reaction is that?! No, wait – he knows _exactly_ what kind of reaction it is. He looks up at Stan and he’s sitting there and the sun’s shining down behind him, almost illuminating him. He looks like a god come to earth or something and that’s when Ford knows.

If Stan doesn’t have something for him, it doesn’t really matter.

Because Ford has something for _him_.

Or he’s starting to.

Or maybe he always has?

Stan, completely unaware that his twin is having an internal, existential crisis, just tears into his sandwich and talks with his mouth full, “Speaking of girls, I’m thinking of asking Shandra out.”

And just like that – Ford’s entire world shatters.

He pushes away his salad, appetite completely gone as he tries to sound casual and not like Stan just swiftly socked him in the face, “Oh?”

“Yeah. She’s not seeing Preston anymore, right? So, why not?”

“Yeah. Why not?” Ford repeats and he realizes there’s a note of hysteria to his tone, but Stan doesn’t seem to hear it as he presses on, “I mean, she’s probably not even interested, but it’s worth a shot. And if she says ‘no’, it’s no big deal ‘cause I got some other possibilities lined up.”

“Y-you do?” Ford manages and he feels like he might start crying, which is absolutely ridiculous.

“Yeah,” Stan confides and he turns to him, all thoughtlessly excited and Ford wants-wants to just hit him as he rambles on, “See, yesterday, when I was working with Shandra, Tad came in – you know, Tad Strange?”

Ford bobs his head. Everyone on campus knows Tad. He’s one of the friendliest guys at West Coast Tech. He actually has a lot of the same classes as Ford and while he’s not the same level intellectually, Ford admires him for his hard work and can do attitude.

“Well, as you probably know, Tad has the misfortune of being in the same fraternity as that numb nuts Northwest. So, Northwest was spouting off about our brawl and my music and apparently Tad – being cool – interpreted it the right way. Which is that I rock and Preston sucks. Anyway, he invited me to play at the frat’s Halloween party next weekend and I agreed!”

“That-That’s great.”

“I know, right?! And you know who else’ll be at the party? College girls! And in particular, _sorority_ girls! No way I can lose. And I figured,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal, “Y’know, it’s been a long time since Carla. I should really get back out there.”

“I see.” Ford says numbly, “Well…good for you.”

Everything inside of Ford is screaming. His stomach is rolling, tying into knots and he folds his arms on top of the picnic table. He picks at one of his extra fingers, eyes downcast because he feels like if he looks up Stan will see they’re glossy and he’ll ask what’s the matter and there’s no way on earth Ford can tell him. Honestly, he’s not even sure _he_ knows.

It’s hard to even quantify – here he was, wondering if Stan had something for him and instead he comes to the conclusion that he has something for Stan. Some-some desire. Some feeling that goes beyond brothers, siblings and twins. Something deeper. More passionate. A…crush? And now here’s Stan saying – oh, yeah, by the way – I’m going to start dating again.

And Ford feels awful. Terrible. Selfish. Stan deserves dates and girls and love and he-he deserves that, he really does. And it’s not like it’s something he can really share with Ford. They’re related. Sure, to Ford it doesn’t matter whether or not they are. To Ford it’s just – there’s nothing wrong with it. He knows there should be, but there just isn’t. The scientist in him doesn’t care about their similar genes. If Stanley was well and truly interested…

But he’s not.

He can’t be.

Everyone was wrong. They must have been. It makes sense. Preston is wrong about ninety nine percent of the time and Fidds and Susan are both just romantics. Romantics with a very weird idea of pairings, but romantics none the less. Besides, they’re so into one another they probably just see couples everywhere. That sounds reasonable. Ford slowly realizes that while he’s been thinking all of this, Stan has still been talking to him.

“…and you too, am I right?”

“Huh?” Ford risks looking up at him, reasonably sure that his face won’t give anything away.

“I was saying maybe you could find a girl too. You’ve never really dated, Poindexter. It’d be good for you to find a lady.”

“Oh. Sure,” Ford whispers and Stan goes back to finishing his sandwich. Once it’s gone he chugs his Pitt can and lets out a belch, crunching the can in one hand before tossing it away. Ford’s lips twitch and he tries to force himself into feeling happier, remarking, “Glad to hear you enjoyed your lunch so much.”

“That’s what burping’s for. It’s a big, loud sound of approval from my gut.”

“You’re disgusting,” Ford says with warm affection and Stan grins, “I really do appreciate you bringing me something to eat, Stanford. Honestly, I only brought a couple of cereal bars – so this was a nice surprise. And it was in brown bag, just like Ma used to do.”

“Well, that wasn’t planned.”

“But you still brought it, that took some thought,” Stan says, then – much to Ford’s shock – he leans close, “Better thank you like we used to thank, Ma!”

Stan lays a big, warm kiss on Ford’s forehead. Ford damn near leaps away from him, banging his long, skinny legs on the table as he gets to his feet. He can hear Stan asking ‘Ford, what the hell? Are you okay?’ but he doesn’t answer, instead scratching at the back of his head, avoiding Stan’s eyes as he manages to get out a warbling, “Well, I should probably get going.”

“What? But you just got here! And you barely touched your food.”

“I’m not all that hungry.” Ford returns and he gathers up his messenger bag, “And I got to get back, can’t miss class, gotta go – yeah, yeah. See you later, okay?”

And then Ford’s gone. He turns and damn near dashes off, heart in his throat and he can still feel Stan’s lips on his forehead. Can still feel the warmth and the heat and the dampness of a kiss that wasn’t meant as anything other than a familial expression of gratitude and Ford tries to convince himself he didn't have a second where he flashed to the idea of just reaching up and threading his fingers through Stan’s long hair, pulling him down so their lips could slant together and he could plunge his tongue deep into his mouth and taste him and kiss him and _kiss him_ and touch him and, and…

_I should really get back out there._

This weird, stifled sob leaves Ford and his eyes and his face feel like they’re on fire and he hates absolutely everything.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sexy fantasies, songs I wrote and sang myself (badly) on my tumblr - [Far From Me](http://cellard00rs.tumblr.com/post/132368801820/song-i-made-for-chapter-8-of-coffee-stains)

Well, at least Stanley can say now – without a doubt – that Ford is not interested.

The kiss on the forehead clinched it. Ford took off like a bat out of hell after it happened, which spoke volumes to Stan. If Ford isn’t interested in taking something as simple as a forehead kiss from his brother, there’s no way he’s interested in anything more intimate. Hell, if Stan tried to kiss Ford on the mouth, his brother would probably punch him. And Ford isn’t much one for physical confrontation.

When their father forced Stan into boxing, he signed Ford up as well. But Ford avoided the ring as much as possible, face buried in a book, hiding and trying not to get called on. Stan has only seen him throw a hit once or twice and it’s…well, to Stan’s way of thinking, it’s rather cute. Ford’s left hooks are always halfhearted and Stan can’t help but tease him about it.

“You gotta put more force behind it, Sixer. You think one of your sci-fi superheroes would throw a punch like that?”

“None of them throw punches,” Ford would retort, “They use their cunning to outmaneuver their opponents. Or weapons, like a laser pistol or a quantum cannon.”

Stan had no idea what either of those was and Ford delighted in showing him sketches he’d done of various super powered weapons, some even of his own design. And Stan had to admit – they were all pretty nifty looking –and the idea of Ford wielding one was oddly arousing. He could just picture his brother, cool and collected, twirling a gun around one of his dexterous fingers.

Regardless, the main fact remained – he and Ford would never be anything more than siblings. Not that this was news, but thanks to his talk with Fidds, Stan admits – he was kind of holding out hope. Some sort of insane, completely impractical hope, but hope nonetheless. Hence why he chose to push the boundaries and see what would happen if he entered Ford’s personal space in a more suggestible way.

And Ford reacted just like Stan thought he would, with the kind of alarm a relative would naturally show if another relative got too questionably close - half part awkward, half part upset. So now, Stan can put his hopes to bed and focus on what he needs to. No more whispers from Preston, a nice conclusion for Fidds - Stan’s going to move on and try again. After all, there has to be someone out there for him. He highly doubts that the fates or gods or whatever cosmic force there might be intends for him to end up with his twin.

Not that he really believes in any of that mystical mumbo jumbo, but his mother always spouts off about it. She’s a big proponent of soul mates and the like – which Stan’s never understood, because she’s with Filbrick of all people. Filbrick Pines. His father. The savage who dared to lay hands on his brother and who seems to think that everything’s just fine. Hey, son! I’ll pay for your cell phone bill! That’ll make up for my hitting you, right?! That’ll take away the mark on your spine – the scar _I_ caused. Yeah, okay, sure – whatever.

In that one way, Stan will never understand Ford. How can his brother stand even talking to the old man? In taking his money? Then again, the man sure as fuck _owes_ him. He owes both of them. So, why not exact some sort of monetary penance? After all, money means a hell of a lot to their Pops. It means more than his kids – that’s for damn sure, so hitting him where it hurts – his wallet – is probably a wise move.

“…are you even listening to me?!”

Stan blinks, pushed out of his thoughts to see Shandra glaring at him, her arms crossed. Stan clears his throat, “Um, how much trouble am I in if I say ‘no’?”

Shandra sighs, “Is this because I turned down your sorry attempt to ask me out earlier?”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Stan, you marched in here at the beginning of your shift and said ‘Hey toots, how’s about you and me take in a movie’.”

His face scrunches up, nonplussed, “Your point?”

“That’s no way to ask out a woman, much less one of my caliber.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Fancy Pants. What was I supposed to do? Come in here with a dozen roses and a boom box?”

“No, you’re supposed to be smart enough to know that you and me,” one of her fingers bounce back and forth in the air between them, “Will never, ever, _ever_ happen.”

“Okay, but to be fair – you do flirt with me a lot. 

She snorts, eyes wide, “ _I_ flirt with _you_?!”

“You’re always yelling at me.”

“My god, that’s _not_ flirting, Stanley! That’s _literally_ me yelling at you because you’re a-you’re just-!” she raises her hands into the air and starts talking in a rapid stream of Spanish. Once she’s done she takes in a big, hefty breath and shakes her head, “Besides, I’m a shift manager! I’m technically above you, it would be highly inappropriate.”

Stan looks at the clock hanging on the wall above their heads and, seeing that it’s closing time, he goes to the front door and locks it, flipping the open sign to its opposite side. He looks out into the dark night and finds himself talking to the glass door, “You know, you could’ve just say ‘no’ and left it at that.”

Shandra softens considerably at his tone, “I did. That’s the first thing I said.”

“After you laughed for a full five minutes.”

She has the grace to look a little ashamed, “I just…you’re asking, it was…”

He waves her off with a hushed ‘yeah, yeah’ as he goes to the tables and starts flipping the chairs up on top of them. She looks at him with some concern, “You know…you’ve seemed kind of out of it tonight. I mean, I’m honestly used to you not listening to me, but tonight…it’s like your mind’s been somewhere else.”

Stan looks at her and wonders how much he can actually confide in her. Finally he admits, “I’m just…lonely. That’s all.”

“I see.”

His tongue pushes at the back of his bottom teeth hard before he finally opens his mouth to say, “And there’s…someone. Someone I’ve been interested in for a long time and I found out they’re…not.”

Her eyebrows rise and he elaborates, “Interested, I mean. In me.”

“Oh god…it’s-it’s not me, right?”

“No, Shandra, sorry to disappoint, but I haven’t been carryin’ a torch for you. It was for-for someone else.”

“Who?”

He gives her a grin, “That’s my little secret.”

“Well, it’s their loss,” she says warmly, “You’re not the man for me – by any means – but you’ve got some potential.”

He rolls those words around in his head before bobbing his head, “Okay. Thanks.”

“No, honest – underneath that rough exterior – you’re a good guy.” She huffs, “Still need a haircut though.”

“Is it at all possible for you to just give me a plain compliment and leave it at that?”

She laughs, shaking her head, “I’m going to go straighten up in the back.”

Shandra disappears and Stan focuses on his work out of the floor. He gets all the chairs up and then moves behind the counter. He empties out the old coffee and cleans pots, mugs, and mixing equipment. He gets everything done and is on the last task, sweeping the floor, when he hears a gentle knock on the glass window pane. He looks up to see Ford standing there and despite his earlier melancholy, he manages a happy expression. He goes to the door and unlocks it, allowing Ford to ease inside before locking the door again behind him.

“Hey,” Ford greets and Stan says, “Hey yourself. I thought that lecture you were going to went on until ten?”

“Nah, he finished up early, but it was still super informative. Professor Stein’s theories on fusion are ground breaking! Did you know he theorizes-!”

While Ford’s excited chatter is always kind of endearing, Stan holds up a hand to halt him, “I’m going to stop you right there and say I’ll have no earthly idea what you’re talking about, so you should save your excited nerd gushing for Fidds. Unless…did he go with you?”

Ford shakes his head, “No, he was going to, but he had some reports to finish up, so I went solo.”

“No geeky girl you could think to ask?”

Ford suddenly looks rattled, “Why’re you so interested in me dating all of the sudden?”

“No reason. Don’t get all pouty.”

“I’m not pouty.”

“Oh yeah? Then what’s this?” Stan asks and he flicks a finger out at Ford’s bottom lip. Ford’s pale skin takes on that hint of rose that always drives Stan nuts and he does his valiant best to ignore it, instead turning his attention back to his sweeping, “If it makes you feel any better, I bombed out with Shandra. So, we’re both still in the Singles Club.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Ford argues albeit with little conviction, “Especially if your feelings are hurt.”

“Eh, I wasn’t all that jazzed up about it. I mean, Shandra’s a fox – no denying that – but we’re more friends than anything. Honestly just asked ‘cause I thought it’d be a lark. Think I’ll have more luck at the frat party.”

Ford says nothing to that, instead pulling down one of the chairs to sit while Stan continues working. He worries at his nails with his teeth and Stan just shakes his head. Ford does this a lot when he’s thinking and it’s a real shame. His brother has such long, beautiful fingers. And his nails would actually be pretty decent if he didn’t nibble them into nubs. Stan finishes just as Shandra comes out of the back, “Hey Ford!”

Ford waves at her as Shandra dons her coat, her eyes on Stan, “I’m heading out. Toby’s still in his office, working on some paperwork. He said he’ll lock up when you’re finished – something about how you wanted to stay a little later to practice?”

Stan nods and he inclines his head towards the area where they have the microphone and amp set up, “Tomorrow’s Friday.”

“No fist-fight this time?”

He shakes his head, “Just songs and the guitar. Going to play through my set a bit, just make sure I’m ready.”

“Hmm. Sounds good. Well, you two have a good night! And Stanley, make sure you leave your apron in the back on its hook!” With that Shandra leaves, locking the door behind her. Stan decides it’s best to remove his apron now, before he forgets. He’s in the process of untying it when Ford speaks up, “You’re going to practice here?”

Stan folds up his apron and puts it on a nearby table, “Didn’t think you’d be done ‘till late, so-”

“Can I listen to you play?” Ford interrupts and Stan beams, “Yeah, sure! Let me just set up.”

Stan gets out his guitar and turns on the mic. Immediately he decides to focus on songs he’s written that have absolutely nothing to do with his twin. There are not that many, but there are some and honestly, he’d been planning on playing most of them tomorrow anyway. He looks at Ford, his audience of one, and with a chuckle, says into the mic, “Hey there, I’m Mr. Mystery.”

Ford whoops and hollers and tries to make up for the fact that he’s the only one here. Stan feels heat rush into his face at his brother’s actions. Dammit – he’s supposed to be getting over this. Still…

“I’ve got a couple of different songs lined up tonight. But first, a joke-”

“ _Stan_!” Ford stresses loudly, “No jokes!”

“Aw, come on!”

“NO.”

Stan grumbles, “Fine, fine – well then, here’s ‘Rock Face’.”

Stan starts strumming fast and hard, a steady beat pouring out as he sings, _“Rock face! Rock, rock – rock that looks like a face, it’s not a face, it’s a rock, it’s a rock face_!”

He plays through that song, then another, before he looks at Ford. His brother looks appropriately captivated and Stan puffs up, proud, his earlier, sad mood forgotten. It’s nice to see that things can be this way – casual. Friendly. Normal – or at least what everyone would define as normal. Yeah, he can do this. He can totally do this! He and Ford can just be brothers and it’ll all be fine.

With this in mind, he finishes up the last song and says, “Hey, how about this – this is what I have in mind for the party – just some covers, but I want to know if I got them down. This one’s by Bob Dylan.”

Stan burns through a cover of ‘Shelter from the Storm’, then moves on to pieces by The Smiths, Johnny Cash, and Bruce Springsteen. Ford responds to each one with hearty applause and helpful comments. So much so that Stan can’t help himself and he decides to do his acoustic rendition of Van Halen’s ‘Why Can’t This Be Love’, a song that often makes him think of Ford.

When he finishes Ford’s face is as bright as a cherry and he has one hand on his cheek like he’s going to swoon. Stan can only assume he’s playing it up and he chuckles, “I take it that was a good one?”

His brother frigging _giggles_ – the sound high pitched and silly – and it sets Stan off to laughing even more. When they both settle down Ford speaks first, trying his best to be nonchalant as he fans at his face, “No, really. That-that was _really_ good. Your performance was so...so passionate.”

Stan scratches at the back of his head, always bashful when he gets honest to god compliments, his first reaction always one of dismissal, “Aw, I suppose it was decent.”

“It was far more than decent, Stanley. You truly have a gift with the guitar.”

“No,” Stan argues, averting his eyes but his brother presses on, “I mean it! I know you don’t want to make it into a living, but you’re very good. It’s really impressive! And the songs you’ve written have always been so creative and catchy. Do you have anything new planned?”

Stan chews the inside of his cheek, heart skipping about, “I-I have one I’m working on…”

“Can I hear it?” Ford asks with such naked excitement that Stan can’t help but feel flattered. He shifts the guitar about and sighs, “I…guess I could play it a little. It’s-it’s still really sketchy and kind of raw, but…”

“Play it! Play it! Play it!” Ford chants and Stan breathes out loudly, palms sweaty. He’d made the decision earlier to avoid any songs that had been inspired by Ford (just in case) but maybe he won’t notice? They could be about someone else, right? Some fictional person. Yes, Stan can easily make that argument. It’s not like the song has his twin’s name in it or anything and it’s pretty obscure…

He rubs his hands on his jeans and rises slightly. He checks the notepad he keeps in his back pocket, just double checking the lyrics before he resumes his seat. He adjusts the guitar and slowly starts strumming the strings. A low, soft sound rings out and Ford looks enchanted, which is what Stan has been going for while he’s been crafted this piece.

He’s trying for something haunting – something along the lines of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’ or Aerosmith’s ‘Dream On’. He’s pleased to see what he’s going for seems to be right as he starts singing, eyes closed to try and help his nerves, “ _Every day, every day, every day there you are and I see you and see you and see how you are and I, I want you_ …”

He swallows and continues, “ _So sweet and sincere and always so near but I don’t feel right, no, don’t feel right next to you, next to you. Next to you. ‘Cause honey, you’re a star. Shining brightly and so far, far from me. Far from me, far from me – you’re so near, but so far from me. Far from me, far from me – you’re so near but so far, far, far from me. I wonder if you see me and feel like I do, but I know that – that can’t be true. ‘Cause honey, you’re a star. Shining bright and so far, far from me_.”

Stan drops off and slowly opens his eyes to look up at his brother. Ford’s expression is hard to decipher.  Stan’s blood pounds in his ears and he licks his lips, voice overly loud after such soft singing, “I know it has too many ‘far from me’s’ in there and yeah, that’s the title but it clearly needs some work. I think the sound is a little too country and the lyrics are pretty childish and-”

“I love it.” Ford cuts in, his voice a rushed gasp, “It’s-it’s beautiful.”

“No.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s-it needs a lot of work.”

“Stanley,” Ford says with conviction as he leans forward in his chair, “Shut up.”

Stan’s about to open his mouth and say Ford’s asking the impossible, but he just continues, “I love it. I think-I think it’s my favorite song you’ve done so far.”

“R-Really?”

Ford nods.

“But it’s-it’s not even done and it needs so much more work…”

“Don’t care. I love it,” Ford argues, crossing his arms and looking like a haughty princess and Stan can’t help but give him a big, goofy smile, beyond thrilled, “Well, okay…I mean, if _you_ like it.”

“I do.” Ford tugs on his beanie, another nervous tic, “Actually, I’m kind of jealous.”

“Ha! You? Jealous of me?”

He nods, “I could never do that.”

“Play the guitar?”

“Any instrument. Much less write songs, think up lyrics and melodies and…I’m not imaginative enough.”

“Stanford, what on earth are you talking about?” Stan scoffs, “You’re an _actual_ genius! Your drawings are phenomenal and you invent crazy things all the time.”

“No, this is different,” Ford says firmly, “What you do – the way you craft things, your,” he stumbles, overeager to try and explain what he’s thinking, “…it’s like soul searching and thought provoking and it’s just, you’re just…”

They lock eyes and Stan feels light headed. The things Ford is saying…they’re the kind of things Stan has always wanted to hear. He hates to admit it, but deep inside he seeks approval and praise. He wants someone to see him and just… _see_ him. Like him. Love him. Hell, this is one of the reasons he fell in the first place. Ford, sitting there, so earnest and supportive and…perfect. Just perfect.

Stan clears his throat and repeats a mantra in his mind about how he needs to stop and how they’re just siblings and how Ford isn’t interested in him like that. How he’s reading too much into this. How he needs to be rational and logical for fuck’s sake – normal people don’t have these problems. Normal people don’t even think this way. That’s the kind of song he should be fucking writing. One about brothers just being brothers with no weird, underlying romantic pininig. Or, rather, one sided romantic pininig.

And that’s when Stan gets a brilliant idea, “You know, I could teach you.”

“What?”

The moment the idea comes Stan grips to it, thinking how it is a perfect distraction for this tense bubble that’s growing inside of him, “Yeah, here…”

He pushes his guitar towards Ford who looks beyond terrified at the prospect of holding it. Stan pushes it forward more insistently, “Go on, take it. It’s not gonna bite’cha.”

Finally his twin gingerly takes up the instrument, holding it close to his body. Stan ignores the irrational stab of envy he feels seeing his favored six string in Ford’s lap. However, he can’t ignore the fantasy that springs to mind. The one of pushing it aside and crawling onto Ford’s lap himself, grinding down his hips as their lips meet.

How their tongues would slickly tangle together and Stan would toss that beanie off Ford’s head, claw at his thick, fluffy hair, and pull at his scalp. And Ford would be just as eager, clutching at his back and his shoulders and then eventually, they would twist and work around one another until their clothes weren’t as much of an obstacle and Stan can just-just ride him, bobbing up and down on his length, taking him nice and deep and hard inside his body again and again – hitting that sweet, sweet spot over and over until oh god – _stop, stop, stop_!

“Stan?” Ford asks; no doubt confused by the ridiculous look Stan has on his face. He closes his eyes and sucks in a loud breath through his nose, “Sorry, sorry – jus’ thinking about something. Not important.”

“Am I-? Am I holding this right?”

“Yeah,” Stan manages weakly, “You’ve got a good grip on her.”

“Her? The guitar’s a ‘her’?”

Stan shrugs, sly smile on his face, “I call her ‘Goldie’.”

Ford laughs, “I didn’t know you named your guitar.”

“It’s a little secret, yeah, but I don’t mind you knowing. Now,” he takes a gentle hold of Ford’s fingers and directs them over certain strings, “You want to press here – not hard, not pressed totally to the fret – but with some force. Think of it like you want enough space to slide a pencil right through this part,” he uses one finger to carefully push between Ford’s palm and the guitar neck, showing how much space there should be, “And then you want to run your fingers along here – or I can grab a pick if you want.”

“No, I’ll use my fingers,” Ford confirms and Stan shifts on his seat, ignoring how that particular comment makes his pulse jump, instead focusing on teaching, “Okay then, you’ll actually get calluses if you play that way. That’s what I got – some might fine calluses.”

Ford just smiles at that and Stan grins in return, “Alright, so this is the E chord and this is the A chord. They’re also the sixth string and the fifth string. You can use them together and…”

Ford runs his fingers along the strings but the sound is sort of weak. Stan shakes his head, “No, wait – don’t think you’ve got it right.”

“Maybe I should hold it this way?”

“No, no…here…” Stan gets up and gets behind Ford but he’s still not quite at the right angle so he asks without thinking, “Scoot up. Let me get behind you.”

“G-Get behind-?” Ford stutters but even as he does so, he inches up and Stan manages to slide into the seat behind him and the wooden chair isn’t really built for two, but somehow they both sort of manage to fit and Ford’s ass is lined up perfectly with Stan’s crotch and he completely ignores how his dick perks up at this, throbbing a little. _Teaching, teaching – I’m a teacher_ , Stan’s thoughts gasp over and over.

His whole body is vibrating with a nervous energy and there’s the telltale hum of arousal in his balls but he valiantly ignores it, praying to all that is good and holy that his brother can’t feel his growing erection, “Here, I’ll put my hands over yours.”

Stan’s arms loop around Ford’s and his hands cover his brother’s and he directs him like a puppet, gently easing his fingertips up and down the strings. A gentle sound reverberates through the air and Ford lets out a shaky laugh, smiling, “I’m…I’m playing the guitar!”

He sounds so proud of himself that Stan feels his heart swell, “Yeah! You’re doing it, bro. Just like this…”

Their hands dance together and eventually Stan pulls his own hands away entirely and Ford keeps easing the same notes out of the guitar, motivated now, clearly pleased to have learned to play –even if just a little. And Stan feels like a cad for imagining how – in this position – Ford could be riding him in reverse, or how he could push him down to the floor, down to his hands and knees and just lose himself inside of him.

Can imagine burying his face into the back of Ford’s sweat-beaded neck and breathing in his scent as he surges inside of him, over and over and then reaches around to touch Ford’s own leaking length and the sounds his brother would make would be far sweeter than anything he’s gotten out of the guitar and…

“How am I doing?” Ford asks and his tone is so innocent and open that Stan wants to slap himself. Hard. He’s thankful Ford can’t see his face as he says in a choked tone, “Good, good. You’re doing great, Sixer. Couple more lessons and you’ll be playing the big rooms in no time!”

“Yeah, right,” Ford scoffs and he turns, looking over his shoulder and his face is…close. Very close to Stan’s. And Ford’s dark brown eyes flicker up to Stan’s – almost measuring and assessing and Stan feels like someone’s smacked him in the back of the head with a brick. Ford’s…looking at him. And then Ford’s eyelashes flutter and fuck – he has long eyelashes. Like pretty little black fans on his pale cheeks and his gaze has moved to Stan’s lips and he’s…looking at his mouth. And Stan own eyelids grow heavy and he can’t be reading this situation right. He can’t be. But Ford’s Adam’s apple bobs and he’s…easing closer. Closer.

Stan’s heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest and his blood is on fire and he can…oh god, he can feel Ford’s breath on his lips. A soft, gentle breeze and he can smell mint and Ford must have been chewing gum earlier and their lips are within inches of one another and Ford’s eyes are damn near closed and Stan just has to move bare centimeters forward to make the connection.

“Well! Who’s ready to go home?” Toby wails out with loud enthusiasm and the moment is lost.

Ford’s eyes grow as big as dinner plates and he actually falls out of the chair and on to his ass, the guitar clattering to the floor. Stan’s head falls back and he clutches at his face. His skin feels super-hot and he muffles out a groan. His erection has to be visible now. No way it’s not. He wants to just…die. He wants to be struck down by lightning and just – DIE.

Or, no, wait – he wants TOBY to die!

Stan hops to his feet and turns to glare at Toby, voice dripping with sarcasm, “Oh me! Me, me, me, Toby!”

“That’s great!” Toby says – not picking up on the sarcasm at all – a big smile on his face, “Because it’s time to lock up! I’ve got a frozen TV Dinner and an episode of ‘Ducktective’ waiting for me.”

Stan wipes a hand down his face. Of course Toby’s a Ducktective fan – the fowl sleuth is certainly smarter than Toby will ever be! Christ! He turns to see Ford standing up, worriedly checking over the guitar and he frowns, hands clenching into fists. God – he’s such an idiot. He probably – he probably misread the entire situation.

The look on Ford’s face, his eyes, how close his lips were…Stan was just over-romanticizing everything. There was no way Ford wanted him to kiss him. Right? Ford freaked when Stan kissed his forehead. He couldn’t have possibly wanted Stan to kiss him for real. Stan replays the last, scant few minutes over and over in his mind and each time he does, the scene changes – becomes much more manageable. No, Ford didn't want Stan to kiss him. That's crazy. That's just…the last dying flickers of the hope he’s trying to extinguish.

Ford is his brother. His brother, his brother, _his brother_. That’s all he’ll ever be.

Ford holds out the guitar, voice perfectly composed, “Looks like Goldie’s okay.”

Stan takes the guitar and looks it over, “Yeah, she’s a tough ol’ gal. You did a good job. Maybe I can show you some other chords some time.”

“That’d be cool.” Ford returns and Toby waddles over, “You two ready?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah – keep your shirt on,” Stan mutters and he gathers up his belongings, making sure to put his apron on the hook in the back. Toby clicks off all the lights and the trio goes to the door, Toby laughing to himself, “It sure was nice of you to come here and wait for your brother, Stanford.”

Ford shrugs casually, “It’s what we do.”

“Well, it’s nice. Wish I had some family waiting for me! You two sure are lucky you have each other!”

“That we are,” Stan agrees, mind lingering over Toby’s words. Family. _Family_. Ford is his family. Nothing more, nothing less. Man, it was a good thing the frat party was coming up. Because it’s clearly long past time for Stan to find someone he can well and truly be with. No more fantasies, no more delusions, no more misunderstandings – Ford is going to be his brother and someone else – anyone else – is going to be Stan’s significant other and never the twain shall meet.

Two separate people, two separate relationships. The way it’s supposed to be, the way it has to be.


	9. Chapter 9

It takes Ford almost fifteen minutes to realize he’s dreamily staring at Stanley.

They’re finishing up their latest shift at The Press Room and Shandra’s in the office, going over some paperwork with Toby. There are a few customers milling about, but not enough to really matter and since no one’s at the counter, Ford is free to do whatever he pleases – no important tasks waiting.

Stan is sweeping the floor in front of the counter because the latest rush of customers also brought in the latest rush of street debris – leaves, tiny bits of trash and the like. He’s totally oblivious to his brother outright ogling him and Ford might have stayed oblivious if it wasn’t for the fact that someone finally walks up to make an order. The customer actually has to repeat themselves a couple of times before they get his attention and when they finally do, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

They ask for the house roast and Ford prepares it quickly, hands shaking. God, he has to get a grip on himself. He can’t afford to just gaze at his brother with hearts in his eyes. He brings the drink to the customer, apologizes again for drifting off, and collects the required payment. Out of his haze and with Stanley still distracted, he reaches under the counter and finds his latest journal.

He draws it out and, as surreptitiously as possible, he consults his checklist. Ever since realizing his budding feelings for Stanley, he’s begun to compile a list of talking points. Talking points to use with his own twin. It’s unbelievably sad, but there it is. Ever since what Ford has dubbed as ‘the guitar incident’, Ford doesn’t know how to act around Stanley. He’s quite certain that – without Toby’s interruption -  he and Stan would have…kissed.

The very idea still throws him for a loop, but it seemed such a hot, tense moment in time. Stan had been looking at him and Ford recognized that his pupils were blown – a scientifically well documented sign of arousal. And their lips had been within inches of one another and Ford knows on his part, that if Stan had bridged the gap between them, he would have allowed the kiss to happen. In truth, he welcomed it. Unfortunately, the moment had been lost by Toby’s arrival and since then Ford has been struggling with what to do.

Several things are clear to him now – he has feelings for Stan. Stan has feelings for him. But how exactly should they approach this? More directly, how should _Ford_ approach it? Previously Stan expressed interest in dating again – specifically in dating girls, but Ford’s fairly certain this is a ruse. Stan still wants him. Right? There’s a slightly uncomfortable air of uncertainty about this, but Ford wouldn’t be much of a scientist if he didn’t experiment. If he didn’t take risks.

Science is all about risks – all about testing, adventuring, and exploring the unknown. In working theories to their conclusions. So, Ford has to go off the idea that Stanley truly is interested in him in a romantic fashion. With this hypothesis set, he can implement steps to reach his goal. His goal, which he’s pretty sure is them…what? Dating? The idea seems too laughable, but oddly appealing. Ford can’t count the number of times he’s imagined them kissing – or even doing something simple like holding hands or snuggling on the couch.

Of course, the latter two they’ve actually done before. Many times. Holding hands is just something they’ve always naturally gravitated towards – Ford because he likes to hide his extra finger and Stan because he says he’s worried Ford will ‘get lost’. This isn’t an illogical fear. Ford has gotten lost more than once – his thirst for discovery too great. From the moment he could walk, he’d wander and lose himself. In malls, in department stores, in parking lots – so Stan took his hand and their mother encouraged it, because someone had to keep a track of him.

And as for snuggling on the couch – well, Stan is warm and comfortable. It’s better than leaning up against a pillow or a bunch of blankets and Stan never objects and Ford’s really never analyzed it, so snuggling has happened. But Ford wants more of it. He wants more of everything, which leads to his second checklist – this one a breakdown of all the reasons that he and Stan actually make a viable couple.

It’s true they don’t share much in common, but there are plenty of ways in which they nicely complement one another and outlining these points has led Ford to believe that they could work in a more advanced relationship. It’s not that he needs much convincing, but he finds consolation in seeing all the work detailed out before him. In turning this around and making it something along the lines of a science project or a mathematical problem he can approach everything calmly, casually. He can find some sense of confidence.

However, he’s not quite sure he’s confident enough yet to approach Stan about it. Even though he has written several opening remarks, such as:

-          Stanley, it has come to my attention that you are interested in me and I would like you to know I am open to this concept.

-          Stanley, you’re my brother and I love you but, I believe I might also be IN love with you and that you may return these affections.

-          Stanley, you are handsome and funny and I would be honored if you would consider being mine.

-          Stanley, for the love of all that is holy, put down that Popsicle and put something _better_ in your mouth (like my aching dick)!

Ford is completely aware the last one is crude and totally unnecessary, but it was written in response to Stan’s actions last night. They finally had enough funds to go grocery shopping and after much pleading on Stan’s part, Ford broke down and purchased them one box of Popsicles. Popsicles that Stan later ate that evening as if he were a world class porn star.

He licked and sucked and been as generally obscene about it as possible and not just with one Popsicle, oh no, but with _several_. It was as if Stan was outright mocking him and Ford’s blush had become so deep scarlet it bordered on purple. If Stan noticed, he didn’t mention it, but he did get a terrible stomach ache from all the sweets and Ford felt it only severed him right.

Ford eyes his notes and flips to a blank page. He continues to peek at Stan now and again and finds himself drawing cute little chibis of his brother. It’s not a drawing style he uses often, but it’s fun now and then to play with different styles. He’s finishing up on Stan’s face when Fidds walks in dressed as Santa Claus.

Stan sees him and immediately busts out laughing, Fidds is unmoved, “Keep it up and you’ll get nothing but coal.”

Ford puts the journal away, tucking it into his messenger bag as his eyebrows rise, “Santa? Really?”

Fidds shrugs, “Susie’s got a Mrs. Claus costume the Diner made her wear last year and she’ll, no doubt, have to wear this year. Way she explained it to me; this is a good way to save money on Halloween costumes.”

“So, are you just borrowing the Santa costume?”

He nods, “Gotta return it at the end of the night. Bud’ll be wearing it this year just like last.”

“Yeesh,” Ford shudders, “How can you stand to put on something Bud Gleeful wore?”

“Washed it plenty,” Fidds confides and he tugs on the black suspenders, “‘Sides, ‘s only for tonight. Stan, you sure Tad won’t mind you bringing a crowd?”

“When he asked me to play at the party he told me I could bring as many people as I wanted and you three are the only ones I would want to bring anyway.”

“Well, Susie’s meeting us there. So it’ll just be you, Ford, and me in the Stanmobile.”

“Hey, tonight – more than any other night – it is the El Diablo.” Stan says with a chuckle, pointing at each of them, “Just you guys wait. My costume is a killer.”

Ford opens his mouth to respond to that only, for Sprott to walk in, followed by Emmet and D'Shawn. His comment gets lost in the transfer from one shift to another. Shandra tells them she’ll see them at the party and heads out, leaving the twins to get ready at the shop. Neither of them wanted to hassle with going all the way back to their apartment, so they brought their costumes with them.

It doesn’t take them long to change and – just as Ford thought – Stan is dressed as the Devil. Or at least, a real slacker version of one. He has a headband with light up horns, his red hoodie with the fur lining and jeans. Ford playfully bats a hand at the back of the hoodie, “Doesn’t this part ruin the effect, El Diablo?”

“That’s the best part!” Stan argues, “It makes me a cuddly devil!”

Ford snorts at that, but Stan continues, “Besides, I got the tail too.”

He turns and shakes his hips and Ford sees that Stan has attached a red, pointed tail to the back of one belt loop. Ford fights down every urge inside of him to grab it and give it a gentle tug. Then he has to fight off the instant idea of what it would be like if the tail was real and prehensile and what Stanley could do to him with it and good lord, why are all of his fantasies so abnormal?

Thankfully, Stan interrupts his mind’s ramblings, “Besides, at least my costume has some flair. You could wear your costume any day of the week!”

Stan looks down at his skeleton shirt and pants, “I’m Donnie Darko.”

“Dorko whato?”

Ford pushes up his glasses and sighs, “I’m Jake Gyllenhaal’s character from the film ‘Donnie Darko’. He wears the same outfit – grey hoodie and all,” he tugs at his own pulled up hood, “I like the movie’s stance on time travel and tangents universes, it poses very interesting philosophical questions about-”

He stops as Stan pretends to fall asleep, fake snoring loudly. Ford lightly punches his shoulder and Stan’s eyes snap open, “Huh? What? I’m sorry; nerd talk puts me out like a light.”

“Shut up,” Ford grumbles with a grin and Fidds – who had been distracted talking to Sprott –comes over and beams, “Like your costume, Stanford. Love that movie.”

“Ugh, you too?” Stan groans as the trio leaves together. Stan’s car – which has been dubbed both the Stanmobile and El Diablo on various occasions – waits for them behind the building. Normally they never drive anywhere – as bikes, the bus service, or even walking are far easier to use in their bustling college town. But for this occasion, it was agreed that driving would be for the best. As such, Stan took the car out of its spot in the apartment parking lot and used it to bring him and his brother to work today.

He uses it now to ferry all of them to the Fraternity house and on the way, much to his obvious chagrin, Ford and Fidds get into a deep discussion about the ideas of both time travel and tangent universes. They’re tossing about all kinds of words and concepts Stan doesn’t understand and then there’s this whole thing with other dimensions and alternate and parallel universes and even though he knows he’ll regret it, he asks, “Aren’t these all the same?”

Ford and Fidds look at one another for a beat, then start laughing. Stan scowls and Ford softens, “No. They’re all different. They are used interchangeably in writing but they’re different. See, a tangent universe is-”

“Hold up,” Stan raises one hand off the wheel, “If you’re going to explain this, do it right. I swear to god, if you make it too complicated with a buncha science-y words, I WILL fart on you.”

“Ah!” Ford sputters, “Why do you have to be so gross and childish?”

“Hey, keep it up,” Stan pats his stomach, “I got one brewin’ for if you’re a smart mouth too.”

Ford’s eyes roll upwards then back down, “Okay, fine. I’ll dumb it down a couple notches.”

“I’m _not_ dumb.”

“I’m not saying you are…”

Sensing a possible fight breaking out between the twins, Fidds speaks up from the backseat with firm authority, “I’ll explain. You boys just keep your mouths shut.”

Stan and Ford look at one another, then nod. Fidds continues, “See, Stanley, a tangent universe is one caused by a drastic change to the flow of time and events. They’re usually unstable – like the events in the movie your brother is dressed up as. A parallel universe is pretty much the same thing as a tangent, but it’s a lot stronger. The divergence in events isn’t so strong as to cause a breakdown of time. And an alternate universe is usually a literary technique of pretending that an existing universe is somehow completely different.”

Stan’s face scrunches up, “I…think I get it. Like, if I’d broken Ford’s perpetual motion machine back at our science fair – that would have caused a drastic change.”

“Whoa! Hold up – why would you do that?” Ford asks and Stan shoots him a guilty glance, “Well, I, ah, may have thought about it. Y’know – I went by the gym the night before those college bigwigs were supposed to come by and I may’ve…you know…considered…”

“What the hell, Stanley?! I would have killed you!” Ford hisses, “Why would you even-!”

“Hey! I was just worried you were gonna leave me high and dry, Sixer. You know I can’t make it without you.”

Ford huffs and crosses his arms, slouching down in the passenger seat. Stan lightly smacks his arm, “Aw, come on! Don’t pout! I said I _thought_ about it! I didn’t _do_ it.”

“Still doesn’t change the fact you didn’t trust me enough to tell me you were worried,” Ford mutters, “You should know I would never leave you behind.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stan whispers and for a while there’s nothing but silence in the car. However Stan eventually cracks, “Y’think there’s a world where we’re like…cats?”

The comment pushes Ford out of his thoughts, “What?”

“Or maybe there’s one where we’re really busty babes.”

“Oh god…”

“Or, hey, hey! I got it! Maybe there’s one where I like, burned to death, and you collected my ashes in a jar and you carry them around.”

Ford looks at Stan as if he’s gone crazy, “Are you out of your mind?!”

“What? That’d be pretty cool, right?”

“Why would that be cool?!” Ford’s voice pitches higher in disgusted horror. Fidds smirks, recognizing that this is –and always has been – Stan’s weird way of making up with his brother. Starting up a conversation that’s so outrageous Ford can’t help but be distracted from their earlier disagreement.

“What? It would mean I went down in a blaze of glory!”

“But why would I carry around your ashes in a jar?”

“Because you feel guilty, it’d probably be your fault.”

“My fault?!”

“Yeeeeah – most things _are_ your fault, sooo…” Stan breaks off, laughing as Ford starts swatting at him and Fidds pointedly clears his throat, “Boys, don’t make me come up there.”

“He started it!” Stan argues.

“I’m ending it. You’re drivin’, Stanley. Eyes on the road.”

Stan looks into the rear-view mirror as he gives Fidds a salute. Ford turns to look over his shoulder, “You have any two cents on this issue, Fiddleford?”

“I think the only alternate universe that matters is the one where y’all are my sex slaves.” Fidds blithely tosses out as he finds a crumpled up magazine on the floorboard and idly flips through it, “Let’s be real – I’d Dom the hell outta you two. I kinda already do ta be honest.”

Ford turns red and Stan is laughing so hard Fidds has to remind him, yet again, that he’s driving. They’re pulling into a parking lot near the Fraternity house when Stan says, “How about this – a universe where we’re interdimensional space pirates.”

“Why would we be space pirates?”

“Um, why _wouldn’t_ we be space pirates?” Stan returns as if Ford is wrong to suggest otherwise, “I could have a cool eye-patch, ‘cause I lost my eye.”

“God, first you’re ashes, now you’ve lost an eye – try and think of a universe where you aren’t mutilated or dead in some fashion, would you please?”

“Well, why don’t you think up one – you’re so clever.”

Ford doesn’t answer right away. Instead he joins Stan and Fidds in clambering out of the car. Stan slings his guitar case over his shoulder and Fidds hefts up an amp, frowning, “You said that they have a microphone set up, right?”

Stan nods, “We need anything else outta the car before I lock it up?”

Ford eyes his messenger bag, but eventually shakes his head and decides to leave it behind in the car. He wonders if he’ll regret this decision. Initially, he’d been resistant to the whole idea of going to this party. After all, it was _Preston’s_ Fraternity. But Stan assured him that the likelihood of seeing Northwest was slim and that this was the only true negative the event offered.

Ford also worried about boredom, but Stanley assured him that he would be there, Fidds and Susan would be there, Tad, Shandra, and a whole handful of his peers – no way could he be bored! Surely he’d find _something_ to do, someone to talk to. It’s a party! A _Halloween_ party! A Halloween _Fraternity_ party! It was predestined to be legendary in its entertainment value!

Still, as they start walking towards the house, Ford finds himself already longing for his bag. It has his textbooks inside, his journals, his tablet – all sorts of fun things he can bury his nose in. Things far better than social interactions. Just the thought of being social makes his pulse jittery. However, he resolved to go because Stanley is playing and he can’t leave his brother alone at a gig. Not to mention he’s…well…he’s kinda curious to see if Stanley will actually gravitate towards any sorority girls.

He is, in essence, calling his brother’s bluff.

It’s a nice night with a cloudless, deep blue sky. The street lamps all glow a nice orange yellow and the sound of music and laughter clings to the air. They pass quite a few people as they walk and most everyone is in costume, heading in the same direction they’re going in.  Ford finds his thoughts hovering over what Stan said last and he sticks his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he shrugs, speaking up at last, “About those other dimensions…I don’t know. I-I like the one we’re in now. The one where we're together.”

Stan stops walking and turns to look at Ford. Ford feels as if a spotlight is on him and he freezes, his whole body seizing up, face taken with a hot flash. Stan gives him a tender smile and pats his shoulder, shaking him a little, “Yeah. Me too.”

He rubs an affectionate hand on the top of Ford’s head and Ford’s sure his expression is goofy because he feels like his insides are turning to water. Fidds, for his part, just huffs out a laugh, “You two are something else.”

“Hey, we like having you around too! Ford just left that bit out! This universe is the best universe ‘cause we get to be the Mystery Trio. Come on, chant it with me! Mystery Trio! Mystery Trio!” Stan continues to chant as he walks and Ford laughs, remembering how they both used to do something similar when they were growing up. Then it had been ‘Pines! Pines! Pines!’ but ‘Mystery Trio!’ is just as good.

A couple people, overhearing them, start up their own chants. Ford hears a couple of ‘Omega Beta! Omega Beta!’s’ and ‘Phi Kappa Phi! Phi Kappa Phi’s’ and shakes his head, thinking how funny it is that he’s in his own strange Fraternity. Though it would be better to think of it as some sort of co-ed affair, because as they approach the steps up to the house, Lazy Susan is waiting for them.

She’s wearing a Mrs. Klaus outfit, but has clearly done her best to try and make it more enticing. She’s pinned up the flowing skirt to rise above her knees, revealing a rather fancy set of fishnet stockings and flashy red leather boots beneath. Instead of the cutesy cap she normally wore at the holiday season, she has her long hair down and styled, the normal brown replaced with a coating of white that surely came from a can.

And while most people who use spray-color have tough looking strands, hers somehow manage to flow smoothly around her shoulders. Her makeup is tastefully done and she’s wearing glowing earrings that are shaped like sleigh bells. Fidds looks as if he’s going into cardiac arrest, damn near dropping the amp as she saunters over to him, voice smoky, “Well, hello there, Santa baby. Got something in your stocking for me?”

Fidds puts down the amp and eventually finds his voice, murmuring, “I might have a candy cane, young lady, but have you been a good girl this year?”

She shakes her head, “Oh no, I’ve been oh so naughty…”

“WHOA. That’s our cue to exit,” Stan says, holding his hands up in surrender for a moment before looking at Ford and tipping his head in the direction of the stairs. Ford more than agrees, as Fidds and Susan start wrapping themselves around one another. Ford’s up a few steps before he remembers the amp. He quickly jogs down and grabs it, doing his very best _not_ to hear the very loud lip-smacking sounds of his friend’s kisses.

The door to the Fraternity is propped open and somewhere a fog machine must be going into overdrive as the ground is a misty mess. A remix of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ is pounding out of speakers at such a volume that Ford feels as if his very teeth are vibrating.

A group of giggling girls prance past dressed as a group of cats and nurses – very scantily clad cats and very scantily clad nurses, which he’ll never, ever understand. The nurse costume, okay, maybe – but sexy cats? Maybe he just doesn’t understand felines? Then again, just earlier he’d been fantasizing about Stan’s devil tail, so he really has no room to talk.

The Fraternity house is beautiful – built from brick with big white columns and a vast porch. The doors and windows are in the French style and the building itself looms high at four stories. The inside is even more extravagant, the floors slick white marble, the walls painted a rich, warm cocoa. Not that that’s easy to tell tonight.

Tonight, orange, green, and purple lights rotate and rove everywhere and every inch of the house is decorated with bats, skeletons, and pumpkins. Everyone seems to have a red solo cup in hand and are milling about. There are long tables covered with a variety of snacks and big bowls of punch. A couple of guys are crowded around a keg and one very boisterous group is chanting as someone chugs from a large funnel. Ford shakes his head while Stan looks around like this is the greatest thing he’s ever witnessed.

Tad Strange comes over and is dressed as a large package of Wonder Bread. He gets close enough so that Stan and Ford can hear him over the myriad of party sounds, “Hey! Glad you could make it! I’ll show you where you can set up!”

He leads them past various rooms and as they walk the booming sounds of the party get lower in volume. They find themselves out back near a large swimming pool. The lights in the pool alternate in color. It glows it’s normal blue hue, then green, then red. Various people have their feet in the water and the truly adventurous ones enjoy swimming at night. There’s a mic and chair set to one side and Tad waves to it, “I decided it would be best for you to be out here. When we were planning the party we labeled this as the ‘chill’ area. You know, for people who want to enjoy the party, but for it to be a little less rowdy. I figured Mr. Mystery’s music would be perfect here!”

Stan appears to be only half listening, his eyes on a group of girls that are gathered around a circular glass table. They’re playing a drinking game, taking shots and laughing, and some of them turn in their direction. A few wave at Stan and he waves back. They let out loud, happy trills and turn to one another, chatting excitedly. Stan’s response to this is an enormous smile, “Yeah! This’ll be a great spot to play!”

Ford looks at the girls and tries to ignore the vicious stab he feels in the center of his chest. Instead he helps Stan set up. Tad helps a too and once Stan has everything up, he starts playing. The girls look elated and immediately start hooting and hollering as he strums the guitar and sings. Tad sits to one side, cheering him on, while Ford watches with his arms crossed and starts to realize that leaving his messenger bag in the car wasn’t his only mistake this evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other universes I mentioned are credited to the following people:
> 
> Fire Within AU: [sugarpea7](http://sugarpea7.tumblr.com/) and [vermillionsketcher](http://vermillionsketcher.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Quantum Dioscuri AU: [theywerefireworks](http://theywerefireworks.tumblr.com/) and [stan-o-wars](http://stan-o-wars.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Feline Falls: [mudkipful](http://mudkipful.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Fiddlestanwich - Dom!Fids: [yeshellowimherenow](http://yeshelloimherenow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> If I did not give the proper credit to someone, please let me know!


	10. Chapter 10

_…if I subtract ‘y’ and divide by ‘x’ it’s a pretty logical conclusion that I’ll get…_

Ford’s thoughts are interrupted by clapping and girlish cries of delight. He frowns and tries to focus.

_…I’ll get a negative, which will lead to…_

“Thank you, thank you! Any requests?” Stan’s voice rings out from the microphone, loud and clear. Ford’s frown deepens.

_…a substantial rise in…_

“Yeah, yeah – you! I’m calling you over, it’s okay – come on up, don’t be shy!”

_…the remainder would be…_

“What’s yer name?”

Ridiculous giggles, “Cheryl.”

“Cheryl! Alright, Cheryl, what would you like to hear?”

“Oh, _tee hee_ ,” (Ford swears she literally said ‘tee hee’), “I don’t know…”

“You had your hand up!” Stan lightly teases, “C’mon, I won’t bite! Tell Mr. Mystery what you’d like to hear.”

“Um…maybe-maybe, I-I mean- do-do you know the song ‘The Joker’? By-by the Steve Miller Band?”

“Know it? Sweetheart,” (Ford’s feels his teeth grit, eyes closed tight to a painful point now); “It’s a classic. You’ve got some great taste! And right on top of bein’ gorgeous? I’m surprised your boyfriend let you out tonight.”

“I-I don’t have a boyfriend.”

A bunch of whooping, clapping, and hollering.

“Well then, guess you won’t mind if I dedicate this to you,” Stan purrs and his guitar starts playing the beginning strings of the song. Ford rubs at his temples and with a curse he gets up from his seat, walking aimlessly away from the crowd that sits poolside. He’s been sitting to one side ever since Stan’s show began but, over time, he’s lost interest. Well, actually – that’s not accurate. He hasn’t lost interest, so much as found himself growing progressively more and more…frustrated with the whole affair.

And he knows he shouldn’t. He knows he should be happy. Proud. Supportive. Stan’s putting on a great show. No, scratch that – an _amazing_ one. It’s probably the best performance he’s ever done. The audience is really into him and he hasn’t missed a single beat – each song, whether a cover or one of his original works, has been well received and well played.

Even his _voice_ sounds good tonight. He’s like a professional .  A well-seasoned rock star, someone born to this. And Ford knows how Stan’s struggled to find ‘his thing’. How he secretly wishes to be ‘accepted’ and ‘wanted’ and how he wants to ‘belong’. He’s never said these things aloud, but Ford just knows it - because he wants the same for himself. But, the funny thing is – he wants them to do those things together, to share them. And this…the way it’s happening right now. It doesn’t feel like that. It feels…awful.

And Ford feels even more awful for _feeling_ awful because, dammit, he shouldn’t be so selfish. But he can’t seem to stop himself. Can’t seem to keep himself from feeling down and hurt about how happy Stan is without him. How well Stan is doing – and the _flirting_. In some ways, that’s the worst part. Normally Stan’s a terrible flirt – as in, his attempts to flirt are terrible. Dumb one liners, bad pick up attempts – but tonight? Oh no, tonight he’s a smooth-talking lothario.

Girls are damn near eating out of his hand. Cheryl wasn’t the first. She won’t be the last. And Ford thought…he’d been thinking…

God, he’s such an idiot.

An _idiot_.

Thinking about how stupid he’s been about this whole thing – thinking about how he was idiotic enough to think Stanley actually had romantic feeling for him – fuck. It’s _embarrassing_. Humiliating. To be so, so, _so_ wrong. Ford can’t even stand it. If there’s one thing he’s always prided himself on, always counted on – it’s been his mind. His genius. His intellect. But clearly he’s not nearly as smart as he thinks he is.

He’s a fucking _moron_.

A six-fingered, freakish moron who has nothing going for him and no one and he’s never wanted to leave a party so badly in all his life and ‘party’ – yeah, right – that’s hilarious. This is not a party, this is a prison and he doesn’t see how things can possibly get any worse.

“Hey there, Fordsy.”

He freezes and his mind explodes into a vicious collection of expletives as he turns to see Preston Northwest. Preston is wearing his normal attire – an overly priced silk scarf hanging loosely around his neck, dark suit jacket with the school emblem stitched onto the breast pocket, a crisp button up shirt beneath and khakis. He’s the snapshot of a preppy college student.

He looks Ford over with an amused smirk, “Where do you think you’re going?”

Ford looks around and then answers with a mere shrug. In fact, he doesn’t know where he’s going. He wasn’t really headed anywhere when he got up and started moving. He’d just wanted to get away from Stanley and his adoring fans. And now, more than ever, he wants to get away from Preston. But it’s not in Preston’s nature to let him get away so easily, “You honestly leaving your lover’s set?”

“He’s not my lover,” Ford snaps and he wishes there wasn’t so much bitterness in his tone. Like he’s…disappointed not to be. If Preston picks up on it, he doesn’t say, “Trouble in paradise?”

Ford opens his mouth, moments from telling Preston to leave him alone when suddenly another set of applause interrupts them and Stan has a new girl up to the mic. She’s blonde and curvy, a vivacious tan to her skin. She’s dressed like some kind of sexy spider and she introduces herself as Darlene. She’s not as shy as Cheryl and instead saucily asks Stan to play something from his heart.

And that’s when Stan looks into her eyes and starts playing it.

“ _Every day, every day, every day there you are and I see you and see you and see how you are and I, I want you_ …”

The moment the first chords ring out of the guitar, the moment the first set of lyrics leave Stan’s lips, the moment where Stan looks directly into _Darlene’s_ eyes and sings, Ford feels the world fall out from underneath him. He feels like he’s sinking. Everything just…drops. He feels dizzy, like there’s no blood going to his head and he wavers on his feet. Stan’s singing this song. This song that Ford told him he loved so much, this song that he sang before they…when they might’ve…

“Whoa, whoa, whoa – you okay?” Preston is touching Ford’s arm and he looks…concerned. Preston is…concerned? Ford blinks and Preston takes a gentle grip on his arm, “Hey, easy there, Fordsy. Can’t have you dying at one of my parties. C’mon.”

Preston carefully guides Ford away. Takes him to the far end of the pool – far from Stan and the girls. He sits him down on one of the beach chairs and pats his back, “Let me get you something to drink, huh?”

He walks off and Ford just sits there – wondering what in the world is happening. Everything is upside down. Preston comes back with a red solo cup and shoves it into Ford’s hands, “Go on – take a load off.”

The scent of alcohol wafting up from the drink is almost toxic in strength. The faint strings of Stan’s song reaches his ears and he chugs the cup down in one go. He tosses it aside, stuffing his hands in his pockets and Preston, who sits across from him, raises his eyebrows, sipping his own cup, “Wow. Didn’t know you were such a wild man, Pines.”

“Screw you.” The words leave Ford before he can stop them. He wasn’t going to say anything. And honestly – Preston was actually being bizarrely nice to him, but still…

He expects Preston to snap but instead he merely sneers, “Feel better?”

This time Ford doesn’t answer and Preston shakes his head, “I’ll get you another one, princess.”

He leaves and comes back with another full cup. Ford slugs it down just as easily as he did the first. Preston eyes him, “What the hell are you supposed to be, anyways? An emo skeleton?”

A million nasty comebacks come to Ford but this time he only manages, “Where’s your costume?”

“I don’t have one. Costumes are for children.”

“This is a Halloween party.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean I have to play dress up,” Preston returns dryly, “I can see why you chose your attire though – having two extra bones and all.”

Ford doesn’t rise to the bait but Preston continues, “How is that, by the way? Do you special order gloves? Is it difficult to write? To type? Did you get into this school on some sort of disability scholarship?”

“What do you want from me, Preston?” he hisses and Preston lets out a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes, before he looks at his own fingernails as if disinterested, “Just some conversation.”

“Is that what you call this?”

“Hey, don’t forget – I just helped you not more than two minutes ago,” Preston returns softly, cruelly, “You know – the moment where your brother-boyfriend broke your heart in two?”

An uncontrollable heat takes Ford’s eyes and he swallows thickly, he can feel the liquor rolling through him and it’s not a good thing, “That’s not what happened!”

“Oh no? You looked close to fainting away on the spot. I would have left you, but I’d rather not clean up the stains from where your big head would have cracked open,” the words are spoken with a derisive evenness, “Now, it wasn’t my idea to invite you nor your boor of a brother, but Tad has a lot of clout in the house, so I let him have his way but let’s be clear – you’re only here under special circumstances. I don’t like you and I never will. Do you understand?”

“Then why don’t you just leave me alone?” Ford hisses, his jaw tight with anger, hands balled into fists and Preston is looking him up and down in a way that makes him wildly uncomfortable as he murmurs, “Because – there’s some fun to be had at poking the bear. Or, more pointedly, poking the freak. And that is what you are, Fordsy, make no mistake about that.”

Ford doesn’t have anything to say to that. He wants to get up. He wants to leave. He wants to punch Preston in the face. Instead he just lies back and looks up at the sky, looks at the stars and feels…small. Stan’s ended that song and switched to another, this one in Spanish and even far away, the sounds curl around Ford. They’re comforting. Even if the person who is singing is not. Preston hasn’t left, instead snorting into his drink, “I didn’t know apes were capable of being bilingual…but then, that’s not the only thing he’s ‘bi’ about, now is it?”

Ford sits up and looks ready to pounce, ready to fight, when a voice pipes up, “Well, well, _well, well_ , well!”

Preston goes rigid, looking monumentally unhappy as a thin, wiry guy walks over to them. He’s followed by a very eccentric looking group of people and he, himself, is rather eccentric looking as well. True, it’s a costume party, but his hair is bleached bright blonde and he wears a suit coat with tails. He carries a black cane and has an eye-patch over one eye, a tiny top hat perched on his head as he flashes an overly sized grin, “If it isn’t my buddy, Preston Northwest!”

“Cipher,” Preston manages, but it comes out choked.

This ‘Cipher’ fellow glides over towards Ford. _Glides_ being the word, because that’s how Ford swears it looks. Or maybe the drinks are _really_ sinking in now? Either way Cipher is looking down at him with one tawny colored eye, beaming, “And who’s your pal?”

“Stanford Pines,” Ford finds himself supplying and the eye widens, “Not _the_ Stanford Pines! I’ve heard about you!”

“You-you have?”

“Sure! I go to West Coast Tech too! Name’s Bill Cipher!” he offers a hand and Ford warily shakes it. Bill uses his cane and waves to the group of people with him, “And these are my friends! You should hang with us! You’d fit right in!”

“I would?”

“Sure! Smart guy like you! I heard you give your report in Professor West’s class about multidimensional item response theory! Pretty compelling stuff! Hey, Eight Ball!” Cipher bellows to one of his friends. A big, burly looking man emerges from the group. He has shaggy dark hair and a tiny eight ball tattoo under one eye. He looks expectantly at Bill who says, “How’s about you get me and Sixer here some drinks? Chop, chop, huh?!”

Eight Ball gives him a thuggish nod and leaves. Ford looks at Cipher, wide eyed, “S-Sixer?”

“Sure – you got six fingers on each hand, right?”

Ford looks down at his hands and reminds himself how anyone can see that, “Yes. Um, but…only my brother’s ever called me that.”

“Oh! Does that mean I can’t? Is it something special?” Cipher asks the question and his tone…seems sincere. Ford’s not sure. He’s feeling a little hazy at this point and still sort of raw. And he thinks of how Stan sang ‘Far from Me’ and abruptly replies, “No. You…you can call me that.”

“Great! Now, how’s about you beat it, Northwest? You’re not cool enough for the likes of us!” Cipher’s words are met with cheers from his friends and a wobbly smile from Ford. Preston, for his part, looks outraged, “Hey! This is _my_ party!”

“This is your _house’s_ party which, funnily enough, I’m a member of.” Cipher offers easily but as his gaze slowly moves over to Preston’s it becomes piercing, his tone taking on a chilly air of warning, “I suggest you take a hike, Preston. Before I rearrange your face. _Again.”_

The last word is spoken with heavy emphasis, the threat clear, and Ford is taken with a quick shaft of fear. One that evaporates the moment Northwest leaves and Bill turns back to him, all smiles and warmth, “Sorry about that! But that Northwest is just sucha pill! But you – man! You’re _nothing_ like he is, Sixer! You’re the _real_ deal!”

Eight Ball returns and while he has a red solo cup in one hand, in the other he has a martini glass. He offers the martini to Bill, who takes it and sips it gingerly. He eyes the pool thoughtfully and then turns to the others, “What do you think, fellas? Feet in the water?”

The group lets out affirmatives and all start stripping off their shoes and socks. Bill turns to Ford and winks his one visible eye, “You in?!”

Eight Ball shoves the cup at Ford more insistently and he takes it, gulping it down in a few big swallows, before he licks his lips and grins, “Sure! Why not?”

 

+

 

Stan is having the best night of his life.

He’s never felt more on fire. Goldie’s strings are ringing out so sweetly, perfectly tuned, and for once he’s not nervous with a crowd around. If anything, he loves the attention. And the girls! They’re all so cute and friendly - tossing him little waves and winks. It’s the first time he’s felt like a successful musician. Hell, that he’s felt like a success at all. He’s even caught some guys giving him salutes and grins (some of which are flirtatious in nature and that’s mighty nice) and over all, he’s on cloud nine.

The only thing that’s missing is Ford.

His brother had been to one side of him when he started his show but now he can’t see him. He mildly scouts the area, one hand cupped over his eyes as if it’ll help him see better or farther. He looks for Ford, for his friends, but sees nothing. Well, Fidds is probably still off with Susan and Shandra waved to him in passing but Ford…normally Ford’s right nearby. Maybe he’s with one of them?

Regardless, losing track of his brother as his show starts winding down is a shame. He misses him. It seems silly – to miss someone he hasn’t seen for only – what? Thirty minutes? Forty? Nevertheless, Stan misses him. He wants his twin to share in his elation, his joy, he wants to rub some of his high off on to him, so he decides to go looking for him only to get stopped by two girls.

He recognizes one of them as Darlene, but the other is new. She’s dressed like Marilyn Monroe and is honest to god batting her eyelashes at him as she says in a breathy tone, “Wow, Mr. Mystery! Your show rocked!”

“Thanks, doll face,” Stan offers simply as he puts his guitar away, thoughts still on finding Ford. Marilyn giggles and Darlene brushes a hand down Stan’s back – a bit overly familiar, but it does feel nice as she says huskily, “Now that you’re done – how’s about you spend some time with us?”

Stan’s eyebrows rise and he turns to see both of them looking at him in a rather…suggestive manner. He swallows thickly, “Oh! Um, well…”

“Hey, you said it yourself,” Marilyn takes one of his hands, twisting back and forth on her heels coquettishly, “No reason to be shy.”

“Yeah,” Darlene takes his other hand, gives it a squeeze, “You seem like a man with secrets…you should share some with us.”

“Secrets?” Stan scoffs, “Ladies, please…I’m an open book.”

“You sure?” Marilyn asks, “Those horns of yours would suggest otherwise.”

Stan remembers his costume and grins sheepishly, “You sayin’ I’m a devil?”

“ _Mmm_ , a very _handsome_ one.” She returns and she starts stroking his hand, fingers dancing up his arm. Darlene, not to be outdone, takes his other hand and presses it close to her chest, making sure Stan can feel her rather ample breasts, “Well, I was gonna make a comment about the horns too – but somethin’ a little more crass.”

“What? Gonna say something about me being horny or-?,” Stan doesn’t get to say more as Darlene laughs and swats at his arm, murmuring an ‘oh you!’ in mock horror. Marilyn laughs as well and Stan feels a little hot under the collar, caught between these two girls. Hot, but also…oddly uneasy? Like, this is what he wanted – right? But he finds his mind still circling around Ford and he clears his throat, “Ah, well – girls, as much as I’d love to spend time with you, I really gotta find my brother.”

“Oh!” Marilyn’s eyes widen, “You have a brother?!”

“Yeah, a twin as a matter of-” Stan can’t even finish before both girls look at one another and let out shrill shrieks of enthusiasm. He stiffens at the sound, the uneasiness rising to new levels as Darlene asks, “Can we meet him?”

For some crazy reason, Stan wants to say no. He wants to draw his hands away from both of them. He wants…he wants to walk away from this. He wants to find Ford. He wants to leave with him and just go home. Just…be alone. Just the two of them.

That would feel better. Right?

But that’s crazy.

Downright stupid.

This is his chance.

This is what he wanted. No, more accurately – this is what he _needs_.

He gulps, closes his eyes for a moment. He focuses on becoming resolved, determined, and when he opens his eyes he puts a firm grin in place. He offers them both his arms, “Sure! Let’s go!”

Marilyn takes his left arm and Darlene takes his right. They start walking around the pool while Stan keeps his eyes out for Ford. At first he doesn’t see him, too many people crowding around, but eventually he hears his voice and his brother sounds…weird. Sort of…slurred. And then there’s another voice, a strange lilting one that says, “…you gotta try it! Hey, Xanthar! ( _Xanthar ?...the hell kinda name is that?_ Stan thinks) Pass it down!”

A group of people disperse and Stan can see a bit better. There’s still no sign of Ford, but he catches sight of an unusual group of kids gathered in a line at one end of the pool. While they all have their shoes and socks off, feet in the water, that’s there only connecting trait. He imagines the first one he sees is the one the strange voice called Xanthar – he’s a massive guy with a funny little party hat on his head. He’s holding a joint, which he passes down to a ridiculously skinny kid who looks like he’s made of nothing but teeth – his smile damn near bright neon.

Teeth takes a hit of the joint before giving it to a big dude with a pacifier in his mouth who just passes it right along to a girl with hot pink hair, her low cut shirt covered in a pink flame design. She also takes a quick puff before giving it to the guy next to her who is wearing a huge collection of necklaces  – most of which look like locks and keychains. Stan’s vision is blocked again but he can kind of make out the features of someone who looks a little like himself (same sorta build, same longish shaggy hair, similarly blunt features) – which is disturbing – save for the fact the guy’s got an eight ball tattoo near his left eye.

Stan shoves himself forward a little, eager to see if Ford is really part of this strange line up, only to finally have the collection of party goers in front of him part to not only let him see Ford, but let him see Ford gingerly take the joint from a wiry blonde kid who gives him a killer grin, “Go on, Sixer! Give it a shot!”

Ford looks at the blunt dubiously, “I just-?”

“Stick it in your mouth and inhale, Genius!”

With a weak shrug, Ford does as the guy suggests but he clearly inhales too much as he draws away, coughing and sputtering. Immediately Stan sees red. He draws away from Marilyn and Darlene and charges over to his brother, “Dude! What the hell?!”

The blonde is laughing his ass off at Ford, while Eight Ball actually gets up to slap Ford on the back roughly. Stan damn near shoves the guy away, his hands shooting under Ford’s armpits and dragging him to stand up. His brother is still coughing and trying to catch his breath while Stan rails at him, “You’re smoking weed?!”

“Hey, hey, hey! This is not just any weed!” Cipher interjects, swiftly snapping up the roll before it’s lost in the melee, “This stuff is out of this world! _Literally_!”

“You shut up! I’m not even talking to you!” Stan barks, jabbing an accusatory finger in Bill’s direction a few times before turning his attention full force back on to his twin, “Ford, seriously? You jump down my throat for smoking a friggin’ _cigarette_ but you’re over here lighting up?!”

He huffs, “I-I can…’splain…”

“You ain’t explaining nothin’! You can’t do _drugs_ , Ford.”

Having finally got air back into his lungs, Ford turns glassy eyes on him, arms outstretched, a far too-easy smile on his face, “Why not? It’s party, amiright?”

Stan’s nose wrinkles and he looks Ford up and down, stunned, “You’re drunk.”

“Nah.” Ford returns, tone coming out all sassily slurred and Stan’s really had enough of this. He takes a firm grip of his brother’s hand and tugs on it, “C’mon, you’re coming with me.”

“Hey! No way!” Ford rips his hand free, shakes it off, and then shoves it and the other deep into his hoodie pockets, “Let go ‘a me! Not goin’ anywhere wit’ you!”

Stan goes to open his mouth, goes to tell Ford to knock it off, when Marilyn and Darlene descend on either side of him. Marilyn speaking up first, “What’s going on, baby? We gonna go have fun or what?”

“Yeah, ‘baby’, why dun’ ya jus’ go off wit’ yer new friends?” Ford mutters and he sways on his feet, clearly intoxicated, as Cipher comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around him, resting his chin on one of Ford’s shoulders, “Yeah, you don’t have to worry, big guy! You go have a good time with the ladies! We got this!”

“No, you don’t,” Stan hisses and he reaches for Ford again but Ford draws back, goes deeper into Bill’s embrace, a bizarre smile floating about his face, “Hey, s’okay, bro. I’mma pal ‘round wit’ Bill and his-‘iz pals. You go ‘n, ‘n - _hic_ \- date or whatev’.”

“Ford,” Stan starts warningly but Darlene butts in, “Aw, hey – look, your brother seems fine. He’s got people watching him! If he doesn’t want to come with us, you should just leave him.”

Stan looks at her as if she’s crazy, “I’m not leaving my brother alone with strangers!”

“We’re not strangers! We’re good buddies! Name’s Bill Cipher,” Bill returns jovially, offering one hand but Stan doesn’t take it, instead folding his arms and looking at Ford crossly, “Stanford, I’m not gonna ask you again!”

Ford shakes off Bill and goes up to Stan, fists clenched, face taking on an angry shade of red, “You-you ain’t th’- _hic_ -th’ bossa me! I’M the oldest, I’mma- _hic_ -the ALPHA!”

“Yer a flamin’ _jackass_ is what you are!” Stan shouts, “Now, I don’t like bein’ the responsible one, but I sure as hell am not going to let you hang around with these yahoos! You’re drunk and maybe a little high and-!”

“I’M NOT YER PROBLEM!” Ford blares, “How-how’s ‘bout you-you FUCK OFF an’ an stop smotherin’ me!”

The words almost seem to rent the air with their viciousness. Stan falls back a few steps and looks as if Ford physically assaulted him. Ford, coming down from his fury, blinks several times and immediately feels a cold chill slide through his veins, “S…Stan-? I’m-I’m sor-”

Stan just holds up a hand, cutting off his words. He turns and walks away. Darlene and Marilyn both shoot Ford a mixture of disgusted looks before taking off after Stan. Ford just stands there, lost. Stunned by his own words. Then he shakes his head, tries to hold on to the last threads of his ‘justified’ anger as he mutters, “Tha’s right…jus’-jus’ go! Far from me…far from me…”

Once he says it, Ford feels terrible. He wants to collapse. He wants to cry. Instead, Bill draws him close, grinning, “Ha ha! You sure told him, Sixer! Didn’t know you had it in you! How’s about I get you another drink?”

The expression on Ford’s face is one of pure sorrow but Bill’s grin just widens as he gently pats his back, “C’mon – you deserve it.”

He gets a wordless nod and Cipher turns his attentions to Eight Ball, “Eight Ball, would you get us another round, please? And get some of the _special_ reserve, if you catch my drift. Don’t think if he got any of that from Preston,” he softly adds under his breath, ‘wouldn’t put it past him though’ before speaking up again, “Either way, he should get some from us, right fellas?”

Eight Ball nods and goes to get the drink. Ford tries to feel better, even though he feels like that’ll never be possible again.


	11. Chapter 11

Preston Northwest really doesn’t know why he should care.

Actually – he doesn’t.

He doesn’t care – not in the least.

But, well – Bill Cipher is a _plague_.

Preston tried to make friends with him. Once upon a time, he tried to be civil - to draw the weird, wayward little demon under his wing. And what was his thanks? The little sneak bit the hand that fed him! He charmed people into his way of thinking, drew them into his confidence and then he started showing up with his strange little band and –

He shudders; it’s too upsetting to even think about. And true, Tad Strange has a similar air about him, but at least Tad’s _tactful_ about it. But Cipher…he’s…

Preston shudders again and takes a deep pull from his flask. He runs a thumb down the smooth, metal cover – feels the Northwest family sigil that’s engraved on it and finds comfort in the action. He’s standing close to a set of hedgerows, eyes not so much on Cipher as they are on Ford.

Stanford Pines.

Poor, disgusting Jersey _trash_. But he is smart. God help Preston – he is that. Stanford Pines is smart and respected. Their teachers adore him. It’s infuriating. How can someone so low class be viewed with such admiration? Not to mention his brother – there aren’t even enough words in the English language to describe how revolting Stanley Pines is.

He may have taken issue with Fordsy, but while he could at least credit him with brains, there's not one viable thing he can say about his twin. Some would argue talent or charisma, but as far as Preston’s concerned; Stan is in possession of neither. His music is abhorrent and he’s about as charming as a dishrag or some other object one of his maids might use to clean.

No – Stan is a lost cause, but Ford…

Preston doesn’t like Ford.

He _doesn’t_.

And he doesn’t care about him, but he still finds himself standing on the sidelines watching because, as much as he doesn’t like Ford, his feelings on Cipher are much worse. And – for as smart as Ford is – he’s being extraordinarily dumb when it comes to this whole situation.

The spat between the brothers (lover’s quarrel, really) had been mildly amusing but, what’s better, was how revealing it had been. Preston was unaware Ford had such a mean streak in him. Not to mention a level of idiocy that’s staggering. After all, Stan (while an uneducated brute) had been trying to help him and he is, in many ways, Ford’s best defense. His ‘protection’.

But Ford just shrugged it off like it was nothing – like he’s some big hero who can take care of himself. It’s laughable. And Stan – he stalked off with two bimbos and didn’t look back. Unbelievable. Preston should leave them to their fates – he really should. But instead he sips more of his flask and listens in on Cipher and Ford’s conversation.

Ford is clearly drunk or high or both but he’s rambling on and on. Spouting off theories and science and how someone in his state can talk about such things is beyond Preston. He’s sitting with Cipher and his crew by the pool again. He splashes one foot through the warm water, causing waves and points to them,“…’s like…th’ ripples? You see ‘em?”

Cipher patiently nods.

“‘K, well, see…my-my theory is…y’know, like, it equals to a lemniscate – just stretches on an’ on an’ flows an’ an’ an’ I makin’ sense?”

Bill rolls his one visible eye, “Suuuuuuure, Sixer. I mean – it’s a good _guess_ , but it’s not even close to what you want. You’d be better off switching some of the math around there. I mean, divided by? Really? Don’t you mean multiply?”

Ford blinks sluggishly then his eyes widen as he rubs at his face, “Oh m’r god! Yer right!”

Cipher laughs, the sound like demented bells, “Of course I am! And, hey! You change a couple of those theorems around; you’ll get a much better base line. My suggestion would be to drop the cosine in your equation. Makes things a lot simpler.”

“Wow! Yer- _hic_ -B-Bill! Yer a g-g- _hic_ -enius!”

“Duh!” he laughs again, “You’re not the only one attending this hoity toity school, y’know?”

He runs the nails of his left hand along the front of his suit as if he’s polishing them (never mind the fact he’s wearing _gloves_ ) and he pretends to blow on them, “Glad I can help you out though. You can just think of me as your muse.”

“I do,” Ford whispers and the look on his face makes Preston want to gag. If it was possible, the dumbo would have cartoon hearts floating around his head! Clearly, Ford and Stan’s incestual bond isn’t nearly as strong as Preston believed if Ford can be this easily swayed to another. Again, not that this matters to him – because it doesn’t. His only interest is in seeing Cipher go down and if he can catch the tricky pustule doing something he shouldn’t…

Yes, there’s the weed – but smoking that isn’t something Preston can catch him for. Marijuana is a way of life for some people around here – that won’t get him banned from the house. No, Preston is hoping to catch him doing something much more illicit. He seems like the type who would enjoy something harder – acid, cocaine, ecstasy – something that can really get him tossed out on his ear.

But so far no luck.

Although one of his cronies sure is hitting up the drinks table a lot. Bringing cup after cup to Ford. Preston wonders if the drinks tonight are being laced. Some of the other chaps talked about it, but he didn’t think there’d been any truth to it. He thought it’d been merely just that. Talking. Big talk, no actual action, just jokes about ways to help people loosen up and enjoy the party more.

But the idea that any of them have actually done it…

Not to mention the idea of it reaching _Ford_ of all people…

Frankly, he’d thought the six fingered mutant above this sort of thing. Ford didn’t seem the drinking type – well, not drinking anything harder than coffee, that’s for sure. It’s why he works at that dingy hole in the wall, isn’t it? Well – that and he’s poor.

Just the thought of being poor and having no money makes Preston shudder again. Sickening. God, he probably isn’t going to catch Cipher doing anything stupid. He should probably shove off – find something fun to do – or someone. He’s seen quite a few delectable ladies, certainly one of them would be more entertaining than this.

But then, right as he’s about to go, it becomes interesting.

He overhears a soft, “…head’s really spinnin’…”

“That just means you’re having a good time, Sixer! Just take another sip of that drink of yours and I’ll get Xanthar to roll us another-” Cipher’s words are cut off as Ford suddenly lunges forward, taking a firm grim of his suit lapels to draw him over and kiss him.

Or _attempt_ to kiss him.

His coordination is severely off and their lips merely graze one another, the action sloppy and not longer than a second because Bill pulls far back, “Ah! _EW_! Gross! Sixer, no! I mean, I like you and all - you’re a pretty smart kid, but kissing? Saliva? Tongues? Not my thing! _EEEEyuck_!”

Ford’s expression is so desolate that Preston feels a strange, foreign sensation in his chest (almost like…his heart hurts?) as Ford sadly whispers, “Oh… sorry.”

Bill leans back forward and soundly pats Ford’s shoulder, “Hey, hey, hey! Don’t be like that! No need to look like a kicked puppy! I’m just saying I’M not interested! I’m sure one of my buddies would totally love to have you like that! Maybe ALL of them! How’d you like that?”

“H-huh?” Ford asks dumbly, shaking his head and looking suspiciously sluggish, “Wh-?”

“I get it, I get it! You’re a young guy! All ragin’ emotions and testosterone and estrogen or whatever hormones you got rollin’ around in that crazy circulatory system of yours! It’s none of my business! I just don’t have those kinds of - _urges_ (he air quotes this with his fingers). But you gotta them, huh? Need to let ‘em out! Go nuts!”

“I-I do feel…hot…” Ford murmurs and he rubs at his forehead, frowning, “Kinda…dizzy…”

Bill laughs, “Yeah – I’ll just bet you do! You need an outlet for all that pent up passion, am I right? Need someone to let some steam off with! Well, I’m not your guy – ‘cause that sexual stuff just ain’t my bag, but like I said, maybe one of the fellas is interested? Hey, guys! Any of you want a piece of this?”

Even as Bill is offering Ford up, he shakes his head, frowning, “Nah-no, no…Bill…don’t-d’n’t wan’ tha’…”

“Aw, c’mon! Live a little, IQ! Have some fun!”

“I’mmmn’t…dun’t wan…” Ford’s words are running together and he’s becoming more indiscernible. He’s looking closer to unconsciousness by the second when Eight Ball comes by and damn near scoops him up. He tosses Ford over one shoulder while Bill crows, “Woo hoo! Ding, ding, _ding_! We got us a winner, ladies and gentlemen!”

The rest of Bill’s crew merely either jeers jokingly or whistles encouragingly. Either way, Eight Ball looks down at Cipher, whose his one visible eye glints maniacally as he gives him a massive grin. A grin that somehow makes all his teeth look sharp and sinister, “Go on, you two crazy kids! My room’s free!”

Eight Ball just gives him a curt nod and walks away, Ford still over his shoulder. Preston can’t tell, but he’s pretty sure Ford finally lost his battle to stay awake and he watches them go with a sour taste in his mouth. This has to stop. He has to do something. But, well…unfortunately, Eight Ball is a BIG guy and Preston’s not…comfortable with confrontations. Especially physical confrontations.

Not that he’s a coward! No one with money can afford to be a coward, of course! But still…something must be done! He rubs his jaw, remembering how Stan took a swipe at it and sighs heavily.  While Preston has no desire to get his hands dirty, he knows someone who would be more than willing to. Someone with big meaty fists for hands.

But how to approach him?

To Preston’s way of thinking, the mess Ford made earlier makes it very unlikely that Stan will be eager to play the part of knight in shining armor. Not to mention he probably won’t believe Preston anyway. But if Preston can convince someone Stan trusts…

He takes another gulp of his flask and goes looking for the one person he knows will talk (and listen) to him.

 

+

 

Fidds draws Susan close as they dance in the center of the house. The music is loud and obnoxious but Fidds is slow dancing with her. Susan giggles and presses her forehead against his, “Why’re we dancing like this? This isn’t a slow song!”

“Susie, when I’m with ya, when I have ya in my arms…every song is a slow song,” Fidds confides, he presses a kiss to her cheek, then another beneath her ear as he whispers, “The world slows to a crawl…’n it’s just you an’ me, darlin’.”

Susan blushes and swats at his shoulder, “Fiddles! Stop! You’re-you’re being ridiculous!”

“No…I’m just bein’ in love with you.” He returns and he draws away enough so he can see her smile, her eyes shining as she softly says, “I love you too.”

They lock lips, tongues carefully sliding against one another and Fidds’s hands explore her back before burying into her long, thick hair, grabbing big handfuls of it. Susan sucks in a breath, arching against him, “Honey…you better stop…”

“Why?”

“I’m…ah,” she giggles, “I’m getting a little worked up.”

“Are you?” he teases and he tugs at her hair again, knowing for a fact that this is a turn on for her. She bites her bottom lip and brushes her own hands along his sides, dipping her fingers beneath the hem of his shirt so that she can drag the tips of her long nails gently up his spine. He visibly swallows as she purrs, “You know…two can play this game.”

Fidds curses under his breath and kisses her again, mumbling against her lips, “We should...should see ‘bout goin’…”

“Mmm, we rode with Stanley.”

“We can take a bus.”

“Or,” she moves until she can get her lips near his ear, whispering breathily, “We could find some place here…some secret spot…”

He shakes his head, “Rather take you home. Have ya all to myself. Don’t want any prying eyes ta see. You’re too glorious.”

Susan shakes her head, draws his earlobe into her mouth and sucks on it, making him curse again. His hands tighten, his hips knocking against hers and she can feels the full length and weight of his arousal against her as she releases her prize just enough to murmur, “Can’t wait…need you _now_.”

“Susan…” he groans as she pants, “Let’s live a little…little adventure…”

“Didn’t know you were an exhibitionist.”

“Don’t like it?”

Fidds wildly shakes his head and he pulls away. He cups her face in his hands and gives her one more, big hearty kiss before pressing his nose to hears, chuckling, “I’ll go find us a place. Y’all stay here while I’m scoutin’!”

Fidds dashes off as if it’s a mad race and Susan stands there, laughing. She looks around at the various party goers and sighs. The party hasn’t been too bad, but she thinks her and Fidds may have been too distracted with one another to see Stan play. She’s not sure. Sometimes when they get around one another she and Fidds fall into the couple trap. She tries her best not to let it happen – but it’s hard.

She just loves Fiddleford so much. She remembers when he and his friends used to come into the Diner all the time. She’d found him cute from the offset but hadn’t been sure how to approach him. She always hoped he would ask her out, but he never did and finally she had had enough and decided to toss her hat in the ring. If he was interested – great. And if not – at least she could say she tried.

But he’d been interested. Boy, had he been interested! And they’d been together ever since! But she strove to not be one of those girls who kept her boyfriend from his friends. Not to mention she liked the Pines twins. True, they were about as different as night and day, but they were both remarkably friendly. And their, ah, relationship with one another was interesting to witness.

Susan’s never seen such close siblings. It’s almost as if they aren’t sibling at all so much as well…like her and Fidds. And Fidds has his theories on that – theories she finds herself sharing. But in the end, it’s none of her business – it’s all for Stan and Ford to work out. Which is why it’s such a surprise when Stan comes stomping past, two girls on either side of him.

Susan is just about to call out to him when she catches sight of his face and man, he looks _angry_. Was he not been able to do his show? Or had he done it but received a poor response? Or – worse – maybe he’d run into Northwest? She knows they’d been in a scuffle recently. Either way, she watches him go with some concern.

He goes out the front door, both girls tagging along, and she wonders idly who they are when she hears someone shout, “Hey! Susan!”

She turns to see Shandra coming towards her. She’s wearing a snazzy blazer with a name tag that reads ‘Lois Lane’, a microphone in one hand. Susan greets her with a grin, “Wow! Hey, Shandra! I heard you might be coming tonight! Love your costume!”

“Thanks – now if I can only find the Superman to go with it!” she laughs, “Not all of us have a Fiddleford, you know.”

Susan rolls her eyes, “He’s alright, I guess.”

“Uh huh, sure. How’ve you been?”

“Good, good.”

“Still working at the Diner?”

“Yup,” Susan confirms and Shandra sucks in a heavy breath, “Girl, you need to leave that place.”

“Eh, it’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad? It’s called ‘The Greasy Diner’! Who wants to eat at a place with ‘greasy’ in its name! No, no – it’s no good for you. You should come work with me.”

Susan raises an eyebrow, “At the coffee shop?”

Shandra nods, “Steady pay, laid back boss – I mean, sometimes I think he’s hitting on me and that’s super gross and creepy but really, he’s harmless. ‘Sides, it’s only a temporary gig for me! Just like you and the Diner but instead of getting tips you know you’ll get a paycheck every week!”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I should work where Fidds does.”

Shandra snaps her fingers, “Oh! Shoot! Yeah, you’re right! You two could never work together. There’d be all kinds of issues with that. But still,” she takes Susan’s hands in hers, tone playfully whiny, “I want to hang out with you more! We hardly ever get to see one another!”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you changed your major.” Susan jokes, “I mean – you want a career in journalism now? Really? Just abandoning the fashion world…” she clucks her tongue in a scolding manner even as Shandra wags a finger at her, “Oh yeah – ‘cause you stuck with it, Ms. I’m-changing-my-major-to-cooking! Like I’m going to follow in your flour tinged footsteps!”

“Hey, baking is my passion!”

“Yeah and reporting is mine – so here we are,” Shandra smiles and wraps an arm around Susan’s shoulders, hugging her close, “Ugh! Forget it! You and I are simply going to have to run off together!”

“And just where are we going exactly?” Susan asks with amusement.

“I don’t know – where two hot, talented girls can go to make it big in the world – New York, maybe? Milan?” they both laugh when suddenly a dark cloud appears. Or, more accurately, Preston Northwest does. He clears his throat loudly, “Um, ah – ladies.”

Shandra releases Susan so she can cross her arms and give him a withering look, “Preston.”

“Listen,” he scratches at the back of his head, looking uneasy, “I-I was wondering if we could…talk.”

“Preston, I told you. I’m _not_ interested.” Shandra intones and Susan steps closer to her, ready to stand up for her friend if she has to. But something about Preston seems…less Preston-y. It’s as if someone’s removed the giant stick from his ass as his eyes shift to one side, his tone less arrogant than usual, “It’s not about that. It’s about Fordsy – I-I mean, _Stanford_ Pines.”

He corrects himself quickly, as if knowing the ‘Fordsy’ moniker won’t win him any points. Shandra is immediately on the defense, eyes like ice chips, “What about him? I mean – my god, Preston, can’t you leave the poor guy alone? Ford is-!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah – I’m not here to talk about how _great_ he is,” Preston gripes, sounding more like himself, “Or how great you all think he is. Stupid, six fingered little worm - _wait_! Wait!”

He interjects this quickly as both Shandra and Susan start to turn away from him, prepared to walk off. Preston urgently waves his hands, “Look – I’ll admit. He’s not my,” he pauses, eyes looking distant as it’s clear he’s trying to think of the best way to put it, “ _favorite_ person, but that doesn’t mean I can just let something-something reprehensible happen to him.”

Shandra’s arms uncross, eyes widening in alarm and Susan takes up a similar attitude as they start finally listening, “What do you mean?”

“Do you know Bill Cipher?” they both shake their heads, “Well, he’s an unpleasant little creep and Ford’s taken an unfortunate liking to him. He’s also taken several drinks, quite a few hits off a joint, and was in a verbal altercation with his brother. A rather large one too – very nasty.”

Susan’s gasps, recognizing now that this must be why Stan passed her looking so upset. Shandra’s expression is severe, “Why are you telling us this?”

“Because I may or may not have kept an eye on the little blighter – and by that, I mean Stanford. He was lounging about with Cipher and his cronies when he passed out,” Both girls grow rigid at this revelation and even more so as Preston continues, “And one of Bill’s crew – Eight-something-or-other – he absconded with him.”

“You’re saying some guy waltzed off with a knocked out Ford?!” Susan cries and he nods, “I believe Cipher gave him leave to take Ford upstairs to his room and-”

“So he was roofied?” Shandra demands and gets another nod, “Yes, yes – I believe so.”

“Oh no!” Susan breathes and Shandra takes one of Preston’s arms, squeezing it hard, “If you’re lying to me-!”

“ _Yeouch_! I’m _not_! I swear! On my life!” Shandra looks unsure so he adds, “On ALL my money!”

Looking more convinced, she asks, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Well – to stop it, of course!” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking away as he adds, “That and I don’t wish to yet again be manhandled by his barbarian of a twin! If I told Stanley-”

“Yes, yes – he wouldn’t believe you. Got it,” Shandra murmurs, frowning, “But I don’t know where Stanley is.”

“I do! I think,” Susan says warily and she points towards the front door, “I saw him go that way with two blonde girls!”

Shandra nods to herself, determined, “Okay, I’ll go find him. Susan?”

She’s already turned to leave, cell phone to one ear as she shouts, “I’ll go get Fidds!”

She disappears into the crowd but before Shandra goes herself, pulling out her own phone to call Stan, she looks at Preston, “Y’know – you could help too! Maybe go find out where exactly Ford is?!”

“Oh!” he looks recognizably distressed at the idea, “Well, I-er-?”

“What? You just came to deliver the message and leave the real work to someone else?” She snaps and when he doesn’t answer right away she groans, “Typical! Fine! I’ll go find Stan – while I’m at it, why don’t YOU go find your balls!”

And with that she dashes off, leaving Preston to scoff in offense.

 

+

 

Ford can’t seem to keep his eyes open. And he keeps being jostled about. It’s also really hard to think. Huh. It’s never been hard before. But it is hard, really hard and he’s…he’s so tried. Exhausted. And dreamy – he feels kinda floaty and dreamy. He remembers being at the pool. Remembers trying to kiss Bill. He shouldn’t have done that. But it seemed like a good idea at the time and Bill’d been so nice to him. It was nice to have someone pay attention to him and understand him and Bill’s kinda cute…

…and then there’d been Stanley.

Stanley with those girls. And both girls had been so pretty and clearly interested in his brother. Not that he can blame them. Stan pays attention to him too. He also understands him, but Stan is his brother and he can’t _be_ with his brother. Stan knows that. That’s why he’s with those girls now. He’s probably kissing them, touching them…having sex…

Ford thought maybe he should have that too. Maybe he should try for that, so he went for Bill. He’s glad Bill turned him down. It would have been a bad idea but now he’s…upside down? Why is he upside down? And he’s looking at someone’s ass. Someone is carrying him? What is happening? He frowns and tries to speak, but his mouth won’t work. It takes too much effort to talk. To think. He should sleep.

Sleep sounds so good right now.

Then his world shifts. It changes. He’s…on a bed? In a darkened room? And someone is with him, over top of him, and he’s being kissed. There’s a mouth covering his own and hands on his chest, unzipping his hoodie, pushing it aside and he lets out a whimper, confused, unhappy, because he doesn’t understand what’s happening.

The mystery person is kissing him again but Ford can’t kiss him back because his lips feel dead. The kiss isn’t bad – sort of sloppy but not necessarily bad. His hands manage to rise up, brush past the person’s shoulders and they’re broad. He has a big body and long, thick hair, strands curling between Ford’s fingers and he thinks of Stanley. Is this-? Is this _Stanley_ over him? Is this Stanley kissing him? Touching him? No, it can’t be…that would be a dream come true. He wants that. Wants it so much…and Stan…those girls…he was with those girls…

…why can’t he think? Why can’t he remember?

The mouth pulls away and he manages to gasp, “Stan.”

Stan (is it Stan?) doesn’t answer him. Instead he tugs off Ford’s hoodie completely, sits him up just enough to remove his shirt and Ford blinks drowsily, still lost. He wishes he could kiss Stan back – wishes he could touch him, make this good, make this passionate. But he can’t. He just can’t move and he can’t stay awake. Not any longer. He hopes Stan doesn’t mind. Unconsciousness washes over him like a wave, sweeping him away into nothingness.

 

+

 

Stan charges out of the fraternity, more than set on taking Marilyn and Darlene back to his car and letting nature run its course. He’s not entirely sure he can handle two girls at once. He really doesn’t care. Hell, maybe only one of them is interested. Maybe neither of them is. If they want to have sex – awesome. And if not? Oh well. Either way – he’s out.

He can call Fidds on his cell at some point – maybe make arrangements for him to get a ride, but as far as Stan is concerned – Ford? Oh, Ford can fucking _walk_ home. Or, hey, maybe one of his new BFFs can drive him. Like that Bill Sifter or whoever the fuck. Ford’s words are still ringing in his head, tearing at his heart. Ford told him he wasn’t his problem. Ford told him to fuck off. Ford told him to stop smothering him.

Well, Stan can do that.

No problem.

He just wishes his brother had told him sooner. Had gone ahead and let him know before now what a friggin’ _burden_ he is. How he wants some space, how they’ve never been apart for too long and hey, maybe that’s what Ford wants – maybe Stan should look into moving out, finding his own place – maybe Stan should look into having his own life totally and completely separate from his sibling. Sibling. Ha. Look at what kind of brother Ford turned out be. Ungrateful, stuck up, self-centered, insensitive, narrow minded son of a b-

“Where we going, sweetie?” Darlene asks, taking one of Stan’s hands and kissing the back of it. Stan blinks, suddenly remembering both her and Darlene are there. He was so focused on thinking about his damned twin he forgot about them. He opens his mouth to answer when suddenly someone hollers out to him. He looks up to see Tad standing around with a group of people and a big cooler.

Tad motions them over so Stan shrugs, “Let’s go over there. Get ourselves some beers.”

Darlene beams and interlaces their fingers, nuzzling into his arm, “Sounds good to me!”

Marilyn does the same to his other arm, “Yeah, me too! Get some free drinks and then maybe…”

She shoots a knowing look to Stan then to Darlene who laughs again and moves up to Stan’s ear, whispering, “Me and Marilyn share a dorm room…if you know what I mean.”

Stan swallows thickly, “Uh, yeah. I think I do.”

Marilyn and Darlene practically drag him over to Tad, who offers each of them a beer bottle. Stan pops the cap off his and takes a big swig while Tad starts talking about the mixture of hops and yeasts that make this beer so good. Stan does his best not to make it obvious he’s zoning out although Marilyn and Darlene look fascinated.

They’re both very attractive girls. Despite Ford’s lashing out – this evening could end pretty favorably for Stan.  But why had Ford lashed out? Just because he was drunk? A little high? If Ford has such problems with him – why hasn’t he said so before now? Does it take these kinds of factors to lower his inhibitions enough so he can admit the truth? That he…what? Resents Stanley? Wants him gone? Finds him – what was the word he’d used a few nights ago? Suffocating?

He’d thought Northwest put those words into Ford’s head, but after tonight…maybe he really _does_ have a problem with Stanley. A problem with their closeness – their relationship. Maybe he doesn't even want to be brothers anymore. Which is ridiculous. They can’t just _stop_ being brothers. He’s thinking about this so hard that it takes him a few minutes to even realize that both Darlene and Marilyn are trying to grab his attention.

He answers them with a grunt of acknowledgement and they start chattering on – something about his music and asking how he comes up with his lyrics and he finds he really doesn’t want to answer. In fact, he’s finding it hard to keep up this façade of interest. He knows he should be interested – hell, they pretty much invited him back to their place for a threesome.

And it’s been a long, long time since he’s slept with anyone. There was Carla, of course – and that one-nighter with Jimmy that Ford doesn’t know about. Hell, it’s the only real secret Stan has ever kept from his twin. Well, besides the being-in-love-with-him thing. And, to be fair, apparently Ford has all kinds of secrets of his own. Like how he truly feels about Stanley and Ford’s words ring out again _: I’m not your problem – fuck off – stop smothering me!_

Before he knows it, Stan’s reaching the end of his bottle and Marilyn is asking him something – which he totally doesn’t hear so he has to ask. She looks put out but repeats herself, “I was asking if you were about ready to go.”

“Yeah, yeah.”  He mutters but Darlene pipes up, “You know, you could write a song about this. Tonight, I mean. I know I’d love to hear you sing a song about me.”

“Mm, right.” He has no idea how his obvious disinterest doesn’t tip her off, as she blithely continues, “You could, like, say something about the crisp fall night, the warmness of my skin.”

“I guess.”

“Maybe something about the sound of my voice. How it soothes you,” she bats her eyelashes at him and he immediately thinks about how her voice – in point of fact – is the very opposite of soothing as he says under his breath, “Sure, ‘course, whatever.”

“What was that?” she questions, tone brittle, and he realizes that while she was quite ignorant earlier, she must have finally caught on to his indifference. He opens his mouth to answer only for his cell phone to go off. He holds up a waiting finger and reaches into his pocket, drawing it out to see Shandra calling. He picks up, thankful for the distraction, “Hello?”

“Stanley, are you still at the party?”

“Yeah, I’m out front of the frat house with Tad and some folks. What’s up?”

“Your brother needs you. _Now_.”

Stan immediately stiffens up, his grip on the phone tightening, “No.”

“Stanley!”

“He told me earlier to leave him alone and I’m gonna do that! He thinks he’s sucha big man – he’s sucha…what’d he call it? An Alpha? Then fine! He can just go ahead and take care of himself!”

“St-!” Shandra’s response is cut short as Stan hangs up on her. Darlene pouts, “Who was that?”

“Nobody.” He snaps and Marilyn steps closer to him, shivering, a similar pout on her face, “You sure about that? You sure seem mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he returns, his attitude completely contradicting this statement. He digs into the cooler to snatch up another beer, shaking his head to himself as he grumbles, “Stupid Stanford.”

He goes to pop the cap when Darlene lets out an annoyed breath, tapping one foot loudly on the ground, “So, Mr. Mystery – we going back to our dorm or what?”

Stan is about to respond when suddenly a cry rises up from the group of people surrounding them. Several of them start whistling and hooting and right when he hears someone say, ‘Dude! That chick looks pissed!’ he looks up to see Shandra marching towards him at full speed.

She goes up to him and, without a word; she whips her arm back and slaps him hard across the face. The full force and impact jar a shocked ‘ _fuck_!’ from his lips even as she starts tearing into him, “First of all – don’t you _ever_ hang up on me again! Second – I don’t care what kind of bullshit fight you and your twin had tonight! I’m not going to stand by and let him get roofied and sexually assaulted because you two are too busy being stupid drama queens!”

Initially Stan is rubbing his cheek, more than ready to fight with Shandra tooth and nail. But when her words sink in and the pain from his face evaporates, panic throttling him, “What’re you talking about? Roofied? Where is he!? What happened?!”

She starts back towards the house and Stan is right at her heels. He can distantly hear Darlene and Marilyn calling for him but he could care less. Ford is – Christ! He’s in danger and Stan doesn’t know where he is! Ford had been a dick earlier but Stan shouldn’t have left him! _Oh god, he shouldn’t have left him! He should have dragged him out – carried him out – oh god, oh god, oh god if anything happens to him..._

And he’s entirely unaware he’s saying most of this aloud until Shandra interrupts him, “Someone saw him being carted off by one of Cipher’s crew – he was unconscious. Word is that Cipher told the guy to take him to his room.”

“Take him to his room!?” Stan can’t even finish the thought. His panic is ratcheting up to a level of hysteria that’s making it hard for him to see straight. His heart is jack hammering as they burst into the house. The loud music – which before had been fun – now feels oppressive. This place is so big – Ford could be anywhere. And the person with him – no, no the _monster_ – with him could be doing anything right now. _Anything_.

Stan’s head whips about wildly and he doesn’t know where to go – what to do. There’s not enough time. He could go out to the pool – find Cipher, beat the information out of him, but then it might be too late. He needs to find Ford; he needs to find him right this second! He wishes he could reach out, wishes he could somehow use their twin connection to nail down exactly where he is, but that’s not something he can do and he feels like he’s going crazy – he’s going to lose his mind.

This can’t happen – it just can’t!

And then, much to his supreme shock, he sees Preston Northwest wildly waving and gesticulating at them from the top of the central stairwell. Shandra digs her fingers into one of Stan’s arms and starts dragging him behind her; “Follow me!”

Her tone brooks no argument and he does as she commands. They meet up with Preston, who is damn near panting; clearly having over exerted himself to get their attention, “Found him! I think!”

“ _You_!” Stan snarls, murder in his eyes. Preston shrinks back, arms raised to protect himself as he bleats, “Hey! Don’t hurt me! I was the one who told Shandra!”

Stan turns his glare to Shandra but she gives a confirming bob of her head, her fingers still on his arm, digging in deeper, “He’s a shit, Stanley. And a liar. But not about this. Trust me.”

“I trust _you_ ,” he stresses, still glaring daggers at Preston who merely snivels, “You’re wasting time! He’s to the left, six doors down! I’m-I’m sure of it!”

“You fuckin’ better be!” Stan hisses and he starts moving with unparalleled speed. He barrels straight for the door, his emotions (anger, fear, worry) building to a fantastic tempest inside him. He reaches the door to hear muted sounds on the other side of it. He tries the knob but it won’t turn, the door clearly locked from the other side.

Without a second thought he rears back and kicks it. The wood shatters inward with explosive force, splinters flying off the frame and Stan enters the darkened space to see someone’s wide, bare back. The person in question rolls to one side and Stan recognizes the eight ball tattoo beneath his one eye. He also sees that when Eight Ball moved, he revealed that he’s dwarfing someone beneath him.

That someone is a comatose, shirtless Ford. A Ford who has bite marks on his neck – his chest. A Ford whose glasses are askew, pants still on but unbuttoned, unzipped, pulled down just enough to reveal his underwear. Ford is unmoving, pale – he doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.

Stanley is nearly blinded by his rage, a roar erupting from deep inside him as he charges forward and knocks Eight Ball off to one side. Eight Ball loudly impacts with the wall as Stan clambers over top of Ford, starts shaking him, “STANFORD! Stanford, can ya hear me?!”

Ford doesn’t answer, doesn’t respond at all. His head lolls about uselessly and his eyes don’t open. Stan licks his lips and he’s too terrified to check for a pulse. Everything inside him is somehow simultaneously freezing cold and blazing hot and he’s dying. He’s dying. Because if Ford is dead…

He turns on Eight Ball, his eyes deadly slits, “What did you do?!”

The bigger boy doesn’t answer. Just sits there sullenly, hands between his legs as he sits on his ass, looking up at Stan as if this isn’t a big deal. Stan damn near screams the same question, “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

Again no answer but he does get the smallest twitch of lips. Like a smile. Stan gets up from the bed, his hands tight fists and he knows without a doubt that he’s going to kill this person. He knows it. The vicious certainty of it isn’t as staggering as he thought it would be. It feels like nothing. He goes to move forward only to be stopped by a band of wiry (but surprisingly super strong) arms and a southern voice in one ear, “Don’t you do it, Stanley!”

Stan struggles against the grip but it tightens, vice like, as Fidds whispers again, “Ford, Stanley. Think of Ford.”

“I _am_.”

“No,” Fidds corrects, tone gentle but with such a sense of steel Stan can’t help but obey it, “Ya ain’t. He needs you.”

Stan’s eyes shift back to Ford. He looks so small on the bed. So innocent. Stan feels as if something is draining out of him as he relaxes marginally and Fidds lets Stan go. Stan turns to look at him and Fidds’s face is firm, resolute. There’s a look behind his eyes Stan’s never seen before and Stan looks back at Eight Ball, points at him as he growls, “Fidds, I’m going to tear this motherfucker into pieces!”

“No. You’re not. Stanley, you’re going to pick up yer brother and you’re gonna take him to a hospital. Right now. I got this.”

“But-!”

“Stanley Pines,” Fidds intones, his voice quiet but razor sharp, “I got this.”

Stan looks into Fidds’s eyes again and they share an unspoken understanding. Stan goes over to Ford and gently scoops him up into his arms. He goes towards the broken door to see Preston, Shandra, and Susan crowded around it. Preston has shucked off his jacket and he wordlessly offers it to Shandra who goes up to Stan and covers Ford’s naked torso with it. Stan looks over his shoulder one last time, trying to silently convey the utter hatred he feels for Eight Ball only for the creature to finally open its mouth, a husky voice sneering, “What? Not gonna tell me I got off lucky?”

“No,” Stan replies with a cruel smile, “Because you didn’t.”

Stan turns and leaves. Fidds rolls his head about his neck and cracks his knuckles. Susan, recognizing what’s about to take place, gently ushers Preston and Shandra a few feet away – just far enough so they can stand guard while Fidds takes care of business, the music downstairs loud and boisterous enough to mask any ruckus.

 

+

Everything happens in a blur. Stan feels like he’s flying. He moves down the stairs, he pushes through people, he dashes down the street and Ford…Ford doesn’t move. He jostles about a bit but he’s light as a feather as far as Stan can tell. But then, maybe that’s because he’s so awash in adrenaline. He can’t feel anything, can’t think. He can only move – can only act, can only be instinctively driven.

He gets Ford into the passenger seat of his car as carefully as possible and then he’s pealing out of his space. He’s speeding, driving his car as fast as possible – trying to be as quick as lightning yet everything feels so slow, like it’s crawling and hurry, hurry – _oh please, dear god, he has to hurry._

Stan knows where a hospital is. You can’t be in the construction business long without knowing where a hospital is. He guns it there. Surprisingly no cops try to snag him, but even if they did – he wouldn't stop. Northing will stop him. And he finds himself talking, chattering aloud to Ford, “Hey, hey Poindexter! Hey, you gotta stay with me – okay?! You gotta stay with me; you gotta hang on – alright?! You’re too smart for this, Ford. Too stubborn. You can’t go anywhere, okay? Promise me. Promise me!”

Naturally Ford doesn’t answer but Stan just keeps on and on – repeating these things over and over, a mantra, and he doesn’t even stop for red lights and he starts answering himself – as if Ford’s actually talking back, “Yeah, yeah – I know we got in a fight and it was stupid. We were both stupid and dumb and we can have lots of other fights later – you know – much, much later when you wake up and you gotta do that – you have to wake up! You have to!”

And he realizes that tears are streaking down his face as he suddenly breaks, his voice squeaky as he begs, “Ford…don’t do this…please-please don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me. Stay-stay and fight with me. I need you to fight with me.”

No answer and Stan wipes at his face, sucks in his sobs and gets the best grip on himself he can as he rolls up to the emergency room. He barely has the car in park before he’s jumping out of it, rushing to Ford’s side to carefully pick him up again, rushing him through the sliding glass doors to bellow, “HELP! HELP!”

The commotion draws people over and the blur returns to take him. A doctor and some nurses emerge and they have a gurney. They have to practically pry Ford from Stan’s arms. They start rolling him away but Stan tags alongside it, desperate, wild. They’re asking him a legion of questions and they float about him like bothersome insects.

_What’s his name? How long has he been unconscious? Do you know what drugs he’s ingested? Are you a relative?_

Stan does his best to answer but he doesn’t care about the questions, he cares about his brother – he cares about knowing whether or not he’s alive. But then the next thing he knows he’s being shoved away by some of the burliest guys they have and being told in hushed, ‘soothing’ tones that he needs to calm down, that he needs to go to the waiting room and they’ll let him know.

Eventually he ends up in a room with several chairs. Some empty, some full. The few people here have morose expressions. A television drones somewhere. Stan collapses into one of the chairs, buries his face in his hands, and does his valiant best not to cry again.

He does not succeed.


	12. Chapter 12

Ford slowly wakes, his body aching. He draws in a loud breath through his nose and it must be pretty audible because the next thing he knows he hears Stan’s voice, husky and raw, “Hey, hey – Sixer?”

“Mmm,” Ford manages weakly, blinking, eyes bleary. He slowly watches his brother come into focus over him, “Stanley?”

“Hey,” Stan’s voice is a hushed, full of relief, “Hey there, how you feelin’?”

Ford hums again, “Don’t know…heavy…exhausted.”

“You’re _still_ sleepy?” Stan laughs but the sound had no humor to it. If anything its highly incredulous and Ford swallows, becoming more alert as the minutes tick by, “Was I…sleeping long?”

More laughter, but this is clearly strained and Ford comes to realize he’s in a hospital bed. He tries to sit up and winces at the action, “Where am I? What happened?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

He frowns and tries to think – his mind feels like it’s as thick and slow going as molasses. He licks his dry lips, “We were…at the party. The frat party and I was…oh.”

More wincing, but this not so much from physical discomfort as from his memories, “I was…a real ass. Stanley, I’m so sorry…”

“No, shhh, don’t worry about it.”

“No, listen,” Ford argues, “I was being childish. What I said to you…I didn’t mean it. If anything,” he pauses; looking self-conscious for several minutes before he closes his eyes and forces himself to continue, “I meant the exact opposite. I got all…churlish because you were getting all this attention and I felt like-like you weren’t paying attention to me. Which is ridiculous when you think about it; I mean, I’m sure growing up you felt like I was the one-”

Stan cuts him off, “Sixer, it’s okay. I don’t care, okay? Forget all that stuff. It’s in the past. It’s not important. We’re brothers. We fight. We’re gonna fight again. We’re gonna say stupid shit to each other we don’t mean, it’s just…part of being family. Yeah, I was mad, but I’m not anymore. I don’t care about it anymore, I really don’t. I just care about you, I…what else do you remember?”

Ford looks around a bit more, just to confirm his suspicions as he asks, “I’m…in the hospital?”

“Yeah,” Stan’s voice cracks a little over the one word so he clears his throat and tries again, “And now that you’re awake, the doc’ll give you the once over. Probably tell us more.”

“More? About what?” Ford shakes his head and looks at the ceiling tiles, avoiding Stan’s eyes, “You keep asking…what I remember. Do-do _you_ know?”

“I have some ideas; can fill in a few blanks. But I need you to tell me what you remember last.”

Ford rubs at his forehead, “I’d been…drinking. A lot. Way more than I should. But…but it was almost like I couldn’t stop. And there was never a time I didn’t have a full drink at hand and Bill…Christ, Bill…”

Stanley stiffens, his voice hard, “What about ‘im?”

“I…it’s…the last thing I remember clearly,” Ford whispers and he feels his face go hot, “I…I was with him.”

“And?”

Ford’s fingers tighten up in the sheet over him, “And that’s it.”

“Stanford…” Stan rarely pulls the ‘authoritative’ voice. That’s more Ford’s thing. But when he does…Ford knows he would hate to hear it – but Stanley sounds just like their father. It’s that voice that doesn’t allow any leeway, no wiggle room. It’s that voice that demands the truth, no matter how nasty. Still, Ford feels ashamed as he begs, “Please, Stan. I don’t…it’s-it’s embarrassing.”

His twin takes one of his hands, untangles his fingers from the sheets, gives it a squeeze, “Stanford…it’s okay. What…whatever he did, you can tell me.”

“No, I,” Ford sits up more, draws his hand away and looks at the floor, “That’s just it – he didn’t do anything. I did and I’m-I’m worried you’ll…”

He trails off, doesn’t continue, so Stan gently prods him, “I’ll what?”

At first Stan doesn’t think Ford is going to answer at all, it’s such a long time before he says anything. But he surprises himself with his own patience, waiting it out until he hears a quiet, “I’m worried you’ll think less of me.”

Stan puffs up, “I’d never do that, Sixer. Not ever.”

Ford looks doubtful but he mutters a reply anyway. However, he mutters it so lowly that Stan only manages to catch an ‘I’ so he has to ask, “You what?”

“I kissed him!” Ford blurts, his face flushing bright red. He and Stanley have rarely discussed Ford’s sexuality. Mainly because, as of now, there’s never been anything _to_ discuss. Ford’s never had a girlfriend or a boyfriend and Stan’s never really pushed him to have either. They’ve both just floated along – unattached, save for their involvement with one another. As siblings, of course! And there had been Carla, yes, but that’d – in many ways – had been more of an aberration than anything.

And even when it had been going on, there'd been no discussion of Ford’s feelings on the matter or whether or not Ford was interested in finding someone of his own. And his mild attraction to Fidds had only been something Ford’d known – Stan was oblivious to it, so, to confess this now – to talk about it, makes Ford uneasy.

This is not helped by Stan’s stricken look, so Ford rushes on, “I know I never like, came out or told you I was gay and I’m not even sure I’m gay so much as – well, I mean I like men but I also like women? I’ve found women attractive before, but I’m not sure if I’m bisexual exactly and it’s very confusing and sexuality can’t really be labeled and put in one box. There’s a very valid fluidity to it and there are several reports and research that say-!”

“Ford,” Stan interrupts his brother’s anxious prattling, “Calm down.”

“But Stanley, this isn’t something I had any choice over and I don’t-!”

“Hey,” he cuts in firmly, taking Ford’s hand in his own again, “Ford, I don’t care what or who you’re into. Honestly, who you chose to be involved with romantically, sexually…I’ll never judge you on that. It’ll never change my feelings about you.”

“So you don’t…hate me then? Find me gross?”

“Well, you _are_ gross – but not for that.” Stan chuckles and Ford pouts, “I’m not gross in any way.”

“Really? ‘Cause there’ve been times when you’ve made our bed into a Dutch oven, if you know what I’m saying.” He jokes and Ford tries to pull his hand away again. But Stan just tightens his grip, laughing, “I’m taking about farts.”

“God! Yes, I _know_ , okay?!” Ford groans, eyes on the heavens, “Talk about gross – _you’re_ the one always bringing that up! You’re like, nine years old or something!”

“What can I say? Farts are funny.”

“Yes, again, if you’re _nine_. You’re unbearably juvenile, Stanley.”

“And you’re unbearably dumb if you think something like your sexuality would ever make me love you less,” the words leave Stan before he can stop them and he feels as if they hang there before him. But he can’t catch them, can’t bring them back. They’ve never told one another they love each other. Not as siblings, not as…possibly something else. They’ve just never said it. No one’s ever even really said it to them either.

Oh sure, their mother will say it now and again and sometimes they parrot it back to her, but love isn't a word that floats between the Pines family often. It's certainly never come from their father’s lips. So for Stanley to say it…

Ford only freezes for a split second, then he just blinks and changes the subject, “Yeah, well – you had this expression on your face when I told you about kissing Bill that made me think you were, um, upset.”

“I was upset because that guy’s a jackass,” Stan retorts, torn between silent relief that Ford didn’t press the issue and disappoint that he isn’t more inquisitive about it. But then why would he be? Brothers are supposed to love one another. In a totally platonic, familial way to be sure but still, while the words have never left their lips it shouldn’t really be that much of a question. Especially considering the current circumstances they’re finding themselves in.

Ford's in the hospital – he was endangered, Stan worried about him – it makes perfect sense he would uncharacteristically announce his emotions. It’s something stress and anxiety naturally draw out. Ford’s chosen to gloss over it, so Stan choose to do the same – for good or ill – as he says, “Do you remember anything after the kiss?”

Ford shakes his head, “No,” he halts a little in his speech, vaguely remembering someone over him – thinking it was Stanley – but that must have been some fevered dream, “No, not really.”

Stan’s free hand clenches and unclenches where it rests on his knee as he nods to himself and Ford frowns, “So…what happened? You said you could fill in some of the blanks. I’m here so it-it seems pretty grim.”

“Not as grim as it coulda been,” Stan sighs and he runs the hand through his hair, tries to relax, “They had to pump your stomach because you were drugged, Ford. Someone drugged you – take one guess who?”

This gets a rough head shake, “No…no. No way.”

“You’re defending him?!”

“No! I just – I can’t believe Bill would-!”

“He did,” Stan stresses, his grip tightening on Ford’s hand, “You didn’t know the guy all that well, Sixer. Hell – you just met him that night! He suckered you, okay? It happens and it ain’t your fault. I wasn’t there for it, but it’s my understanding Bill’s one slick son of a bitch. He slipped you somethin’ and let one of his boys cart you of to – to-”

It’s impossible for Stan to bring himself to say the rest and Ford shifts a little, hairs all over his body standing on end as his gaze loses focus, tone dead, “Did he-? Was I-?”

Now it’s Stan who’s shaking his head, “Nah, I-I got there in time.”

Ford’s eyes slide closed and Stan catches sight of a singular tear trying to escape. It dances just at the edge of his right eye, lost in his long sooty eyelashes and it breaks Stan’s heart. He can’t help himself. He gets up and hugs his brother close, breathes against his hair, ‘please don’t freak out’ before he kisses his forehead and then right next to that eye.

His lips taste the salty tear, taking it away so that when he draws back Ford looks more like himself. Ford with a tear in his eyes…any tears…it kills Stanley. He can’t have it. Ford opens his eyes and looks at him. All wounded and small and so much unlike himself. It reminds Stan too much of that night – his mind flashes to Ford’s torn, bleeding back – the look on their father’s face.

Wanting to distance himself from the painful memories he sees that Ford’s glasses rest on a nearby bedside table. He grabs them, gently slides them into place and Ford looks a little more like himself, especially when his lips twitch at the action. Almost a smile. Almost. Stan feels his own mouth mirroring the movement as he sticks his hands in his jacket pockets, “I’m gonna go ahead and get someone in here to check on you.”

Stan walks towards the door and when his back is facing Ford he hears him say softly, “Thank you, Stanley.”

“Nothing ta thank me for.” Stan tosses over his shoulder as he leaves.

 

+

 

Ford’s still a little shaky and he still feels a little like crap, but at least he’s _finally_ going home. The doctor also assured him he can go back to school, which is a HUGE relief. Ford’s been worrying almost nonstop about all the classes he’s been missing.  He’s also been beating himself up mentally for days. How could he have been so easily tricked by Bill? How could he have fallen for his cheap flattery? He was Stan’s brother for heaven’s sake – he should be able to see thorough a con.

Yet he had taken the bait, fallen into a trap, and only by divine intervention had he avoided what could have been a terrible fate. As it was, all he currently suffered from was a big hit to his pride. Well, that and the occasional ache in his head and stomach. Still – he couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid. Stan did his best to cheer him up though as he escorted him back to their apartment. He chattered on, voice cheerful, “I know you’ve been thought a whole helluva lot, but hopefully you won’t mind the surprise I got waiting for ya when we get upstairs.”

“How is it a surprise if you just told me about it?”

This causes Stan to pause on one of the many steps they’ve been taking in the stairwell, the elevator out as always, “Well, okay – now you know there’s a surprise, but you don’t know what the surprise is, right?”

“Yeah?”

“So, it’s _still_ a surprise! Now stop tryin’ to ruin it, smart aleck!”

Ford merely chuckles and lets Stan keep his secrets. They approach their apartment and when Ford opens the door he finds Fidds, Susan, and Shandra on the other side. They have a couple of welcome home balloons and a banner up and Ford flushes when he sees it, ducking his head, “Wow! Hey, guys – thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. We’re just glad you’re home!” Shandra says and she gives him a quick hug, then draws back with a cunning look on her face, “You’re all healed up, right?”

“Um, yes?”

“Good, good.” She releases him and then draws back one arm so she can slap him hard across the face. The sounds rings out and Ford curses as Shandra gives him a sharp smile, one finger wagging at him, “One for Stan, one for you! Next time, don’t be such an incomparably dickish baby! You have a problem with your brother? Then you talk to him like a man! Not drunk, not high! And don’t you ever, EVER run off with weirdos you don’t know ever again, you understand me?!”

Ford doesn’t answer, instead holding his face, still cursing and Shandra grabs one arm, shakes him, “Stanford Filbrick Pines – Do. You. Understand. Me?”

“Ahh! Yeah! Yes, _yes_!” He hisses and she lets him go, all nice and friendly again. Stan steps up close to him and uses the back of his hand to cover his mouth as he whispers into Ford’s ear, “Sorry, Sixer. I woulda stopped her but she’s…ya know. Scary.”

Ford just nods and continues rubbing at his cheek, relieved that the sting is starting to wear away. Fidds comes up now, tugs Ford forward and hugs him. Unlike Stan and Ford, Fidds has no problem showing affection – he’s a hugger through and through. Ford finds he particularly enjoys it this time as he hugs back, patting his friend’s back, “Hey, man. Missed you. Thought you’d come by the hospital and visit me.”

“Wanted to but ‘fraid I couldn’t. Had my own things ta deal with. You understand.” He pulls away and Ford notices that both of his hands have scabbed over wounds on their knuckles. He grabs one of the hands and holds it up for further inspection, “Whoa! You’re hurt!”

Fidds’s scratches the back of his head with his other hand, shrugging, “Ain’t nothing. Just a scratch. Ya shoulda seen the other guy. Sure as shit knows he can’t see you. Both his eyes are black and about swelled up to shit.”

Ford looks up at him, eyebrows raised, “And just how did that happen?”

“As I told the investigating officer – I’m not sure I rightly know. Think the unfortunate fella took a tumble down the fraternity stairs. Maybe more ‘n once even. It’s been known to happen.”

Susan nods emphatically, “Yes and after all - Shandra, Preston, and I were witnesses.”

“Hmm – and Eight Ball himself said it was his own fault,” Shandra hums in agreement, looking at her nails, “Slipped after a few too many drinks or something. Fiddleford hurt himself trying to help the poor wretch. And without any other conflicting stories well – what could anyone do, you know? The case; or lack thereof, wrapped up rather quick after that.”

“Wait – Eight Ball?” Ford blinks and tries to recall why that name is familiar. His mind is hazy, but he seems to remember someone with an eight ball tattoo. A bigger guy with a build similar to Stanley’s. He bites his bottom lip, “Is he the one who, uh, tried-tried to, ah-?”

Stan gives one firm nod and then puts a hand on Ford’s right shoulder, squeezes it before giving him a little shake, “It’s all over now though.”

Ford doesn’t _feel_ like it’s over, but he doesn’t voice this aloud. Instead he lets himself focus on the other interesting bit of information, “You said…Preston was a witness?”

This gets a huff from Stan and Shandra shoots him a look, explaining, “Yes. Preston was actually the one who alerted us to your situation.”

“I’m-I’m sorry. Preston _Northwest_?” Ford tries to clarifying, thinking that Preston isn’t _that_ uncommon a name. Maybe there was a Preston Smith there or something. But no - Shandra nods and flips some of her long hair over one shoulder, “Believe it or not.”

“I choose not.”

Shandra rolls her eyes and Susan comes in quietly, “I don’t like Preston either. And while I highly doubt he’s changed his stripes it was…good of him to come forward.”

“Speaking of,” Fidds forks a thumb over one shoulder, “Think those are for you.”

Ford’s eyes move in the direction Fidds’s points and he sees on their rickety kitchen table an enormous bouquet of flowers. They’re damn near over flowing from an ornate vase that probably costs more than most of the things in their apartment. He walks over to it, feeling numb, and sees there’s no card attached. He reaches out a hand to touch one of the silky flower petals. Tulips, magenta ranunculus, hot pink peonies, and pale pink sweet peas are artfully placed together with lavender, Queen Anne's lace, and oak leaves to fill everything out. Ford feels like his eyes have to be huge as he fingers each tender plant, “This is beautiful.”

Stan barges over and, seeing it, frowns deeply, “Where the hell did these come from?”

“Was delivered while you were out pickin’ Stanford up,” Fidds replies easily and crosses his arms, eyeing Stan with interest. He doesn’t miss out on some entertainment, Stan’s cheeks taking on a ruddiness as he mumbles, “They come with a card?”

Ford lightly shakes his head and Fidds tucks one thumb under each suspender, “Nope. But I reckon I have an idea who sent ‘em.”

Stan shoots a questioning look at him, but Fidds doesn’t say a word. Instead the two share the kind of unspoken, mental conversation that’s normally reserved for he and Ford solely, “You gotta be shittin’ me – you think _Northwest_ sent these?!”

“Who else?”

“Bill could’ve-!”

“Nope. Don’t know ‘im myself – but don’t seem his style.”

“And you’re saying this is Northwest’s ‘style’.” Stan air quotes ‘style’ and Shandra chimes in, “It does fit his M.O. When he asked me out he sent me flowers and when I broke up with him he sent me flowers. Surprisingly, he’s a flowers kinda guy.”

“Okay but _why_?” Stan grouses, “It woulda been better off if he’d sent us some money for the hospital bills we’re gonna be payin’ for the rest of our lives! I’m talking debt up to our ears!”

“Shit,” Ford grumbles, rubbing at his eyes, “ _Shit_! I forgot all about my lack of health insurance – _fuck_!”

Susan comes over and takes one of his arms, hugging it, “Look, don’t worry about that right now, huh? This is your welcome home party! So, how’s about we welcome you home? I made you a little something myself!”

She moves the flowers from the table and puts them on the bar counter near the kitchen. She disappears into the shadowy alcove and Ford hears her open and close the fridge. When she returns she’s carrying a plate. Ford beams at the recognizable sight, “Aw, wow! You’re pineapple upside down cake?! Man, talk about scoring the jackpot!”

Susan giggles and puts the cake down, “I’ll grab us some forks and plates and we can dig in!”

The foursome all take seats at the table and start devouring their slices. As per usual, Stanley finishes his off first and once he’s done he draws out his guitar. At the sight of the instrument, Ford fairly glows, “Goldie! She’s okay!”

“Goldie? Who’s Goldie?” Shandra asks but the question is covered over by Ford continuing, “I was worried you might have lost your guitar. What with-with everything that happened and all…”

Stan shakes his head, “Nah – Tad saved it for me. He took good care of it too, until I could pick it up. Now, how’s about I play something for you.”

Ford feels his cheeks heat, “Oh! I, well, you-you don’t have to…”

“C’mon, Sixer. It’s the least I can do. You’re my biggest fan and ya know, you were kinda right. I was ignoring you a bit at the party.”

“No, you weren’t. You were having a good time and I should have tried to ruin it by-”

“Oh my god,” Shandra moans, head tipping back to highlight her annoyance, “You two can play this game later. I’m not here for your family drama! I’m here for a good time! So! How’s about you play a song for me! Word is; I missed you doing a serenade in Spanish at the party. I didn’t know you spoke it.”

Stan leers at her, “Why? Surprised to find I have a…talented tongue?”

She groans again and shoves his shoulder, “Shut up, you shaggy hipster and sing!”

He twists his lips to one side, thinking deeply, before he starts confidently strumming the strings. He breaks into a cover of Café Tacvba’s ‘Eres’ and Shandra taps one foot, looking thoroughly impressed. Once finished he gets a nice smattering of applause from his friends, Shandra the first to speak, “I’ll admit – you’ve got a pretty good handle on the language. Where’d you learn?”

Stan shrugs, “Various jobs. I just sort of picked it up.”

She eyes Ford, “Looks like there’s more than one genius in your family.”

Ford ducks his head, “Stan’s plenty smart.”

“Mm, and a good performer ta boot. Want to sing me some Billy?” Fidds asks and Stan laughs, hugging his guitar close, “What is it with you and Billy Joel?”

“Mama loves ‘im. Now come on!”

“He’s more a piano kinda guy, but, here,” Stan goes into a rendition of ‘All for Leyna’ and occasionally he jokingly changes the lyric whenever it comes to ‘Leyna’ – he does ‘Fid-yna’, ‘Sue-yna’, ‘Shan-yna’ and finally ‘Ford-yna’, which makes Ford’s duck his head even more. The group enjoys the improvisations, laughing and hollering in equal measure.

Once that wraps up Susan requests ‘To Be With You’ by Mr. Big and she tugs Fidds up to dance. Shandra watches them with a wistful expression and, being a gentlemen, Ford gets to his feet and offers her a hand. She eyes it dubiously, “You sure? I don’t want to wear you out.”

“I’m fine. One dance isn’t gonna kill me,” she takes his hand and he then warns, "It might kill your feet though. I’m not too good at this.”

This proves to be true. Ford tramples her feet once or twice but Shandra just grimaces and grins through it, remarking wryly, “Whoever you end up with better have invulnerable feet.”

The words make Ford’s gaze drift into Stan’s direction but he doesn’t say anything. Instead the song reaches its conclusion and everyone stops to applaud. Stan gets up and bows, but then resumes his seat, fingers intent on the strings, “Annnnd- just for a finishin’ encore. I’m gonna play something that I know Sixer’ll like.”

Everyone looks over to Ford, who feels as if the tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks have caught flame as Stan starts singing Bon Jovi’s ‘I’ll Be There for You’, especially when Stan’s eyes never seem to leave his. Ford feels each verse, each wail from the guitar down to his toes – his whole body covered in chills. Once it’s over Stan hugs the guitar close again, all innocent nonchalance, as if he didn’t just bust out a power ballad, “He’ll never admit it – but that big nerd over there looooooves this song. Used ta catch him singin’ it in the shower when we were growing up.”

This causes the group to turn amused looks Ford’s way and his bashfulness gives way to a more comfortable sense of sibling-incited aggravation, “Yes, thank you for sharing that with everyone, Stanley.”

“Nothing to be ashamed about. You weren’t half bad.”

The words draw a choked chuckle from Ford, “I was awful and you know it. But I’ll admit – I like power ballads, popular musicals, top ten hits…you know, they’re successful for a reason.”

“Huh. Well, as much as I’d love to hear you belt out some show tunes, Ford. I really gotta run,” Shandra sighs, gathering up her things, “I have to open the shop tomorrow.”

“Oh no! The shop!” Ford starts but she pats his shoulder, “No worries. We got you covered. Won’t put you back on shift until you’re ready!”

“Susie and I are gonna take our leave as well,” Fidds says and both he and Susan separately hug Ford and Stan before gathering their own things and departing. Once they’re gone, Ford finds himself alone with Stanley. They both look at one another and an awkward sort of air settles between them. Or, maybe it’s only _Ford_ who feels awkward, as Stan flashes him a sunny grin, “Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Time for you to hit the sack.”

Ford feels flustered at the nick name, “I’m not Sleeping Beauty!”

“Dunno – you sure did a helluva lot of sleeping like she did.”

“Yet you’re now recommending that I go back to sleep?” Ford retorts and Stan walks over to him. Ford draws in a breath, unprepared for his brother’s closeness but if Stan notices, he doesn’t say a word. Instead he lightly flicks a finger on one of Ford’s cheeks, “Well, you gotta do something about those bags under your eyes.”

Ford gently knocks his hand away, “I do _not_ have bags.”

“Look, Sixer – you look beat. And to be frank, I’m pretty much beat too. So, I say we knock off for the night.”

His suggestion is perfectly reasonable, so Ford nods and the two go through their normal nightly routine to prepare for bed – brushing teeth, changing into nightwear, taking that last run at the bathroom. They end up in their shared room and as Ford clambers onto his side of the bed, he realizes that he’s…nervous. He has no idea why – it’s not as if anything remotely suggestible has really transpired between them since before the party.

In fact, if anything, the party drove home the idea that he and Stanley are not as viable a couple as he believed. But…well…that doesn’t stop him from wanting it, does it? And the songs Stan sang earlier – they were so romantic…

Stan gets into his side and Ford suddenly notices that he’s holding a little drawstring pouch. It’s a deep royal purple and Ford recognizes it as the kind of bag that normally houses Crown Royal whiskey. However, the bag appears void of a thick liquor bottle and Stan’s eyes are exceedingly shifty as he clears his throat, “So, hey. Uh, listen…I…I know you got a lot of presents since you got back and-and while I’m sure nothing’s gonna beat those fancy shmancy flowers, I-I may have got you something.”

Ford is stunned but flattered, “Really?”

He gets a rough nod and Ford eyes the bag, “And…I take it it’s not Crown Royal?”

“No, I got the bag from Dan. Just needed something to put this in. I-I actually made it for you,” this last sentence comes out threadbare and it’s obvious Stan is being eaten alive by his own insecurities at this gesture. Normally he’s so good at playing everything off, but right now he seems very vulnerable so Ford doesn’t tease him further.

Instead he takes the bag, curiosity gripping him as he carefully opens it. He reaches inside and feels a cold, thin link chain. He tugs on it and finds that it’s a necklace. At the end of the necklace is a solid triangle pendant, the chain passing through it. He rubs his thumb over it and finds it very smooth.

Stan, clearly anxious about Ford finally viewing it, starts talking rapid fire, “It’s made of olive wood. See, when Fidds was here more,he started teachin’ me how to whittle and then it turned out Dan was into too and he took over showin’ me how and I was thinking about doin’ this as your Christmas gift but I got it done a bit ago and after everything that happened I thought it might be a nice thing to give you now and I did a triangle, ‘cause I figured it’d like – I don’t know – tie into geometry or somethin’ nerdy you’d like and-!”

His words are cut off as Ford lunges forward and hugs him. Stan’s words stop instantly at this action. Ford has the necklace clutched in one hand, pressed against Stan’s back as he holds him tightly, his voice choked; “I love it. Thank you.”

Stan swallows thickly and tentatively hugs Ford back. The two brothers slowly draw away from one another (reluctantly) and Ford carefully puts the necklace on. The wooden triangle rests perfectly against the space between his collarbones and he gives it a gentle tug, rubbing his thumb over it again and again to feel the smoothness of the wood. He then lies down, eyes on the ceiling as he deeply sighs, “Man…I _am_ beat.”

This gets a chuckle in response, “Toldja.”

Stan clicks off the lights and settles in himself. They lie there in the darkness for a while, nothing but silence between them until Ford whispers, “You really made this?”

“Mmhmm.”

“It’s really cool.” He hears another laugh and Ford glowers, thinking Stan isn’t taking him seriously, “No, I swear! I’m never going to take it off. Never.”

“Well, I’m glad you like it.”

“Replace ‘like’ with ‘love’ and you’re correct.”

There’s that word again. Love. Just hanging out there. But this time it’s Ford who’s said it. Ford feels a little jittery hearing it aloud again. Almost otherworldly. Like standing outside of himself and just…watching. Even more so when Stan murmurs, “Hey, Sixer?”

“Yeah?”

“Is this-? Is this okay? Me and you…sharin’ the room and the bed? I mean, I know you said…”

“I don’t find you suffocating, Stanley,” Ford interjects adamantly, “Or smothering. I told you, I didn’t mean those things.”

“Okay, but, well, you’ve said ‘em twice now.”

Ford shakes his head, not caring that his brother can’t see the action, “I could say it a million times and it would _never_ be true. I don’t really think that way. I promise. Stanley, I would rather we always be a ‘we’ than an ‘I’. I don’t want to be an ‘I’…I don’t want to be alone. I want…I want to be with you.”

Once he says it, Ford knows not only that it’s true, but that he can’t take it back. He waits for Stan to ask if he means as brothers or as something more, but instead he just hears a soft, “Do you wanna…maybe, I dunno? Spend a whole day together soon? Just you an’ me? We can get a bite to eat, go to the coast…it’d be fun.”

Ford feels his heart squeeze, mouth dry. Is-is Stanley asking him out? Or is this just a friendly twin brothers thing? Either way, Ford knows his answer and replies almost instantly, “Yeah. That sounds great. Fun.”

Stan hums and Ford can feel him shifting about on the mattress. Silence reigns between them again for a long while and just as Ford rolls to his side, sleep drifting very close, he feels Stan move up behind him, “Uh, hey – Ford?”

“Yeah?”

“I-I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Or, well, I mean I know you just said I don’t make you feel suffocated or smothered or whatever but…” Stan trails off and Ford’s long since reached the point of being wakeful enough to wait, “Out with it, Stan.”

“Can I-? Can I hold you?” The question is asked with such a sense of fragility that Ford knows there’s only one right answer, which is good – because it’s the only answer he wants to give, “Yes.”

Stan wraps his arms around Ford’s middle, hugs him close and buries his face in his hair. Ford’s state of alertness has risen. He was moments away from sleeping until this – now his heart is jack hammering, but he ignores it. He ignores it, because he can feel Stan’s big body shaking a little behind him and there’s just this light bit of wetness against his hair as a stifled, sob like sound escapes Stan, “I’m so glad you’re okay. If anythin’ woulda happened to you, I-I-.”

Ford feels his own eyes heat and he stops Stan’s tearful words as he covers Stan’s arms with his own, squeezes them close, “Shhh. It’s alright. I’m here. I’m here.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: POVs change around quite a bit towards the end.

Ford frowns as he lifts first a red shirt for inspection, then a blue one. He shakes his head and tosses both aside before picking up a yellow one. Ugh – mustard yellow. How did he even _get_ this shirt? The yellow joins the toss pile. He finds one with a silly math equation on it – it’s hilarious, but it’s more the kind of shirt he would wear to an after school club. Besides, it’s not something Stanley will like – what _will_ Stanley like? What will Stanley find him attractive in and this is hopeless and unbearably dumb.

Ford lets out a frustrated groan and falls back on the piles of clothes he has yet to go through. He can’t pick out a shirt – heck, he can’t even pick out _pants_. He can’t pick out anything, because he has no idea how today is going to go or what exactly today even _is_.

It’s been a few scant weeks since the whole frat party incident. Thanksgiving is creeping up on them and the weather has hiked back up to a scorching degree. So much so that Stan asked Ford to explain global warming to him (again) and Ford started explaining it (again) only for his brother to walk out of the discussion halfway through (again). As such, Ford knows he should probably pick something breathable, since Stan hinted they were going to be out most of the day.

This day – their day together. Stan asked him about it when he’d first got back – about spending a whole day together and then he’d told Ford he wanted to save up for it. To make it something special. And all the talk has left Ford conflicted. Conflicted to what exactly this is. Is this just a normal day where two brothers hang out and have fun? Or is this a normal day where two people who are potentially going to become something more hang out and have fun?

He knows it’s probably a brothers thing. Has to be. Despite his earlier (irrational) beliefs, Stanley has no romantic designs on him. Why would he? They’re _relatives_ for god’s sake! All the things about the songs and the closeness and that bizarre episode where he was teaching him how to play the guitar and it looked like some sort of big-kiss-moment – he’d just taken that and blown it out of proportion.

Stan had been hitting on girls at the party all night. Hell, he’d picked up two of them. If it hadn’t been for Ford’s wild idiocy, he probably would have scored one of them as his girlfriend – or at least as a one night sexual fling. Stanley…sex...

Ford’s eyes drift closed and he feels guilty. He shouldn’t think of his brother in any sexual sense. He shouldn’t. But…what can it hurt? It’s just in his own mind, right? It can’t hurt anyone to-to fantasize. He lets out a breath and pictures it, pictures Stan walking over to him – his thick fingers brushing past his cheeks as he cups his face in his hands – kisses him.

His hand rises to his lips, rubs at them. How would Stanley kiss? Roughly? Softly? Would it be all consuming passion or slow, linger torture? He doesn’t know, but he knows either way he’d break – either way he’d part his lips and let Stan inside, let Stan’s slick tongue slide against his own, taste him and then Stan’s hands would run all over his body, would dip beneath Ford’s shirt and hike it up. Ford finds himself subconsciously mirroring the actions of his fantasy – his own hands dancing up under his shirt, brushing tantalizingly over his nipples before going lower, dipping beneath his waistband-

“Hey, Sixer!” Stan’s voice calls out and Ford jumps upright. He draws his hands away from their intended destination and instead buries them into the messy jumble of clothing beneath him. Stan wanders into their shared bedroom and frowns, “Hey! I was calling ya like a hundred times – why didn’tja answer?”

“Oh! I was-uh!” Ford blinks, tries to get his thoughts back on track. Christ – what had he almost done? Had he been about to jerk off? Here?! That’s crazy! That’s what the shower is for! And even if he was going to do it in here, he’d do it when his brother wasn’t on the premises! It’s this day – it has him completely of kilter and he decides it’s okay to admit as much – at least a little, “I was…trying to pick out something to wear.”

“Wow. Really? Didn’t realize it’d absorb yer attention that much.”

Normally it wouldn’t. Normally Ford would just choose whatever. But for some reason, he wants to look particularly good today. It’s so stupid. He grouses, “Yeah, well – most of my good clothes are dirty. We need to make a laundry run.”

Stan raises an eyebrow and walks over. Ford shifts where he sits, coloring slightly because he still feels slightly…aroused. Not visibly so, but if Stan had come in just a few minutes later…

Stan doesn’t seem to notice Ford’s internal strife. Instead he picks up a shirt and sniffs it. His nose wrinkles and he picks up another, doing the same, “Mmm, seems like you’re right. Most of these have your body funk going on.”

Ford relaxes considerably at the words. See? Body funk. Stan does not think of him that way. He needs to stop being a total fool and just-just act normal. He grabs a hunk of clothes and tosses them at Stan, “Shut up.”

Stan laughs and reaches down to dig out a sleeveless heather grey tank. He sniffs it and shoves it at Ford, “Here. Wear this. It’s hot out.”

Ford takes the tank and frowns, scrutinizing it closely, “Is…is this even mine?”

“Yeah. Think so.”

“Sure it’s not yours?”

“Does it matter?”

Ford’s bottom lip juts out and he nods to himself before stripping off his sleep shirt and tugging it on. He feels the triangle necklace dancing about his neck and grins. He loves the necklace to such a point where now he’s not quite sure how he lived without it. It feels so comfortable around his neck. Once the sleeveless tank is in place he looks at his arms and grimaces, “Ugh. This _has_ to be yours. I hate showing off my arms.”

“Dunno. Material’s a bit too classy for me. Besides, don’t be ashamed of your guns.”

Ford flexes an arm, eyebrows knitted together in confusion, “What guns?”

Stan grabs his upper arm, gives it a squeeze and Ford knows his face is probably reminiscent of a tomato. Damnably pale skin. But – well – Stan’s grip is so…firm. And it feels good. His hands are rough, slightly chafed but in all the right places and really, what the hell is the matter with him? Brothers, twins, family – c’mon, Stanford – these aren’t difficult concepts! Stan releases his arm and digs out a pair of 3/4 jeans that have those ‘fashionable’ rips, tears, and tatters and shoves it at Ford, “Here ya go. Got you some bottoms too. Now you’re good to go!”

Ford eyes the jeans and yet again questions whether or not these are his. Stan, for his part, is definitely wearing something that is his. He’s got on a random band shirt (random because Ford’s not sure which band it’s for, but he just knows that’s what it’s gotta be) with a red flannel shirt over top and his own pair of 3/4 jeans that look suspiciously similar to the pair Ford’s been handed. His hair is loose at the moment, curling a little past his neck and without thinking about it, Ford finds his hand darting out, taking some strands to lightly tug, “It’s getting really long.”

Something flashes in Stan’s eyes and Ford realizes what he’s just done with a guilty gulp. He quickly pulls his fingers away, but if Stan notices the abruptness of the action, he doesn’t comment on it, “Yeah. But I’d hate ta cut it. Thinkin’ about just letting it go a bit more.”

“Trying to get ‘rocker’ hair?”

He gets a laugh, “Yeah, maybe. The good ol’ headbangin’ variety.”

“Sure you won’t look like a wrestler? Or a romance novel cover?” Ford chuckles and Stan rolls his eyes, “Shut up. It looks cool. I got a whole Hozier thing going on.”

“Hozier?”

“He’s a singer, ya dum dum,” Stan gestures to his shirt and Ford looks at the weird design. It looks like some abstract painting and Stan explains, “He’s a decent musician – an’ the ladies love ‘em. At least the ladies I know.”

“So Shandra and Susan?”

Stan nods, “Shandra at least. She gave this to me last Christmas. Figured I’d break it out – it’s one of my only clean ones.”

“Then I was right about us needing a laundry day?”

Another nod, “But not today, bro! Today is all about you and me! So, hurry up, get dressed – we got a lot to do!”

Ford gets a rough pat on the back and he shakes his head. He finds a blue flannel for himself and shrugs it on over top of the tank, followed by his signature beanie. He gets to his feet and wonders where exactly they’re going to go and what exactly Stanley has planned.

 

+

 

Ford looks dubiously at the old, wood paneled station wagon, “You have to be kidding me.”

“Yeah, yeah – I know. It’s Toby’s.”

“I guessed as much – this vehicle is almost as sad to look at as he is,” Ford grins and Stan has a matching one himself as he gets into the driver’s side. Ford cautiously gets in the passenger side and sniffs, “Huh – at least it doesn’t smell. I was _really_ expecting a smell.”

“Nah, I fixed that asap. Doused it last night with a crazy amount of Febreze, then let it air out. Had to borrow it from him, though. Need it for our plans today.” This is said with an air of secrecy and Ford tries his luck, “Which are?”

“You’ll see.”

“Huh – now I know why you chose the Mr. Mystery moniker.”

“Exactly! Now strap in!”

They both put on their seat belts and Stan hits the highway. Ford’s not sure where they’re going, but he doesn’t really care. He finds himself in an unmistakably good mood. The earlier anxiety about what exactly this is has given way to a nice, comfortable feeling of pure enjoyment. It’s a gorgeous day – not a cloud in the sky and he has his twin by his side. They’re listening to a classic rock station, the tiny speakers belting out AC/DC and Ford has the window open a crack to let in a little breeze.

He pulls out one of his journals and does a couple of light sketches – just things he sees along the way. Birds, trees, other cars. He turns and does a very scratchy one of Stan’s profile. He gets a bit lost on Stan’s nose, his brows – they’re relaxed but strong and surprisingly fun to pay attention to. Then he’s on to his lips and slowly the drawing morphs from scratchy to skillful – his pen strokes slower and more deliberate.

For his part, Stan is beating out a tune on the wheel, singing along (rather poorly) to the Queen song that’s started playing – though to be fair – not many can match Freddie Mercury’s pitch. Stan’s doing his best to hit the higher parts of ‘Bicycle’. But knowing he’s not doing a good job, he moves on to doing it poorly on purpose – getting more silly with each yowl of the lyrics and he turns to Ford, shooting him a funny face.

Ford laughs and then, because he’s feeling so jovial, puts his artwork aside so he can join in. The two of them start shouting the words at the top of their lungs, Stan playing the wheel while Ford beats at the dashboard and it’s a full hearted performance on both their parts. When the song ends they collapse into laughing, trying to catch their breath only to lose it again because Chicago’s ‘King of Might Have Been’ starts up and they get into singing that.

They eventually die down during a Journey song and Ford goes back to his art. Stan sees it out of the corner of one eye, “Whatcha drawing now?”

“Um, you, actually.”

Stan’s eyebrows rise, “Really?”

Ford nods.

“How’m I lookin’?”

“Pretty good, pretty good. Lot better than in real life.”

“Ass.” Stan laughs and Ford grins again. This is nice. Normal. They’re finally back to the way they should be. Nothing weird or awkward. Nothing questionable. Just two bros chilling. Ford looks into the large flat back and sees a collection of blankets, towels, hunks of dry wood, kindling and a huge cooler. He eyes them and wonders if they’re Toby’s or if they’re part of Stan’s plans for them.

He starts to think it’s part of Stan’s plans as his brother finally pulls off on an exit that Ford knows leads to a beach. He’d talked about going to the coast – Ford’s fine with the idea – more than, honestly. They grew up on Glass Shard Beach – part of him always hungers for the smell of salt air, the ocean. It’s a part of him in many ways. He likes the sea – identifies with it, it’s endless stretches like his mind, it’s bottomless depths like his soul. He smirks a little at himself – who knew he was this much of a poet?

He should tell Stanley – his brother can probably turn the thoughts around into some mighty fine lyrics. Stan pulls to a stop and Ford looks up to see the edges of a wooden boardwalk. He gets out and Stan beams at him, “Wait’ll you see what I found here.”

Ford follows him with interest. They pass a couple of shops and restaurants before they end up in front of a large, old school arcade. Ford’s eyes grow big and Stan looks like he’s just hit the jackpot as he waves to it, “After you!”

“Oh wow! This is-! This is-!” Ford can’t even finish the thought as he goes inside. He’s played the occasional console game with Stanley (sometimes Fidds) but he’s not much one for systems. At most he’s played on his PC. When they were very young, there had been a nearby gas station that had had an old pinball machine and that’s what Ford adored. That’s what he liked, what he’d played with the same ferocity most people reserve for consoles. But eventually the old thing had fallen apart and been shipped off.

Ford always lamented it’s loss and now here he is – in a place that has dozens of them! Stan goes up to him, eyes shining with mirth, “Sorry to say they don’t have Tumbleweed Terror, but they do have some I think you might like. There’s Lazer Wizard, Crazy House, Dinosaur Chase and they got some old stand up machines like Nerd Punch 2, Frog Time, Ghost Maze, Yappers annnnnnd-” Stan keeps dragging the word out as he takes Ford by the hand and walks him over to a Nort console.

“Oh my god – Nort!? I LOVE that movie!”

“Yeah, I know ya big nerd!” Stan rolls his eyes but it’s clear he’s beyond delighted by how much Ford’s loving this. He damn near has stars in his eyes as he looks at everything and Stan just looks at him, feeling the same. Ford bounces on his feet, “Man, I don’t know what to play first!”

“Well, I toldja I saved up some money for this – so how’s about I get us two big cups fulla tokens and we go from there?” Stan goes up to the counter where an attendant works to get two big plastic cups before going to the token machine.

He pops in two twenties and mounds of tokens spill out. Ford watches in awe, “Forty bucks? Are you crazy!”

“After all this time you have to ask me if I’m crazy? Sheesh – you think you’d know your own brother by now!”

“Stanley, you’re a well-known cheapskate. I’ve never seen you spend _four_ dollars willy-nilly much less forty!”

“I am not a cheapskate.”

“Au contraire – you get it from Dad.”

Stan stiffens, “I don’t get nothin’ from him.”

Ford softens, not wanting to ruin the good mood and momentum they’ve had going. Bringing up their father is always a bad idea – it instantly dampers Stan’s attitude. As such, Ford holds up his hands in surrender, “All I’m saying is, it’s quite a bit of money to throw away on games and frivolity.”

“Lemme guess – you worried about the hospital bills?” Stan asks and Ford opens his mouth, not sure how to answer. He’s this close to getting Stan back to feeling better – the last thing he wants is to tell Stan that’s he’s not at all worried about the hospital bills because he’s...taken care of it. Taken care of it in a way that Stanley most certainly will _not_ approve of.

Fortunately for him, he doesn’t have to think up an excuse as his brother keeps talking, “Well, don’t be. We’ll figure it out. And yes, I’ll admit – I’m usually a little more…fickle about how I spend my hard earned cash, but this is different. We deserve this, Sixer! We deserve something fun. I told you – I saved up for this! So – come on! Take your share and let’s play some games!”

Ford takes his cup, lips twitching and they both go to various arcade cabinets.

 

+

 

“I’d like to state again for the record that you, Stanley Pines, cheat at air hockey.”

“How’d I cheat? Just ‘cause I smoked you at it?” Stan boasts as he bites into his sub. They played at the arcade for a while before finishing off their tokens on a heated game of air hockey – one in which Stan won and Ford is still bitter about it.

Of course, Ford is mainly bitter about it because while they’d been playing he’d been…distracted. The game had been fun, but it had gotten very…competitive. They’d been teasing one another and laughing and it had really gotten Ford’s adrenaline pumping. As well as something else. Something less appropriate. Because Ford’s pretty damn sure that picturing throwing his brother down on the air hockey table and ravishing him within in an inch of his life is not at all appropriate.

And not just because they were in public. Ford’s still a little annoyed about it, but not at Stanley – at himself. He thought he’d gotten himself back on track and then that heated fantasy had taken a grip on him. The idea of just – just pushing Stan down, capturing his mouth, ripping away his clothes and just touching him all over…

Dammit – why can’t he just be _over_ this?

Stan seems happily oblivious to the whole thing. They’re sitting in a sub and sandwich shop, tearing into meatball subs and between them sits a stuffed toy of indeterminable species. They got it with their collection of tickets but Stan insisted Ford take it as a consolation prize. He pokes it now, “Come on – you got this lil’ guy. That’s gotta make up for it – at least a little bit.”

“I still don’t know what it is,” Ford murmurs and picks it up, “It’s got horns like a goat but a nose like a pig.”

“What’re you gonna name him?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

Stan takes a big sip of his soda, “Eh, I don’t know…Gompers?”

“‘Gompers’? What kind of name is that?”

He shrugs, “The first one I thought of?”

“That’s a weird name to just jump to.”

“I’m full of surprise,” Stan argues and Ford sniffs, “Yeah right – I know you inside and out.”

“Oh do you?” Stan asks, eyebrows raised, “Well then, did you know I watched and liked ‘The Duchess Approves’?”

Ford sits up and the look of shock on his face is clear, “Shut up.”

“No – it’s true. Remember how Grauntie was always trying to make us watch that mess? Well, I finally did. You were sick at the time and there was nothing else to do, so I watched it. Wasn’t that bad. I could kinda identify with the main chick,” Stan finishes off his drink and then eyes his brother, “Word to the wise – you tell anybody about that and I’ll pound your face in.”

Ford sighs, “Of course not, Stanley, I won’t tell anyone. Don’t even know why you told me, to be honest.”

“To prove my point – you don’t know everything about everything. We may be twins – we may be a ‘we’, but I still got some tricks up my sleeve. You don’t know _everything_ about me.”

“Are you worried I think you’re predictable?”

He nods, “Predictable and boring. And I ain’t you.”

“I’m _not_ boring!” Ford snaps but Stan just laughs and gets to his feet. Ford follows suit and they leave the restaurant to end up back on the boardwalk. They start walking its long length even as their conversation continues unabated, “Okay, you’re not boring but if anyone can claim to know somebody inside out, it’s me. I know you, Poindexter. You ain’t hard to read – I know you. Balls to bones.”

“First off – ew. I do _not_ want to know where you came about that turn of phrase and second – I am _full_ of mysteries, Mr. Mystery!” he says the name with a playful sneer. Stan snorts with disbelief so Ford puffs up as he proclaims, “I get sea sick!”

Stan stops and looks at him, eyes wide, and Ford nods, “That’s right! Sea sick! It’s one of the reasons I wasn’t-wasn’t big on your idea growing up. You know…the one where we sail around the world? That boat we tried to rebuild?”

Stan vaguely remembers the Stan-O-War. It was a beat up old junker they’d found and worked over in their formative years. Stan once suggested they run off together on it, but then reality set it. Ford made a revolutionary science project, colleges came calling and he was within inches of a scholarship. Stan used to agonize about it until the blow was finally delivered – West Coast Tech, Ford’s dream school, was interested.

At the time, Stan’d been in full panic mode – terrified he’d be trapped with their parents or, worse, homeless. Left with an uninspiring life in Jersey scrapping barnacles off the local salt water taffy store when instead – much to his surprise – Ford insisted Stanley join him on his cross country excursion.  And Stan had gone – delighted not only to hold on to his brother, but to the person he loves above all else. And now here he is discovering something he didn’t know.

Ford looks a little apprehensive as Stan’s silence continues, “I never wanted to tell you…I was worried you-you’d make fun of me or think less of me and I-I didn’t want to disappoint you. Especially over something so stupid. I mean, I could have taken medicine for it, but it wasn’t something I really wanted to do. I wanted to go to college, y’know? And I was pretty sure I could get in and I thought about going solo but the more I thought about it - the idea of going without it you was-it just was…”

His words stop as Stan touches one of his arms and Ford looks up to see his brother’s expression is soft, “You could have told me.”

“No, I – Stan, I’m weak in so many ways. I already have,” he looks down at his hands, tugs on one of his extra fingers, “so many other abnormalities, I didn’t want…”

Stan takes Ford’s hands in his, interlacing their fingers as he looks into his face, “Your hands are _not_ an abnormality. And being sea sick isn’t abnormal either. It’s just a part of you. And I like you, Sixer. I…I really like you.”

Ford’s eyes shoot to Stan’s at this confession. Does he-? Is he saying-?

But then Stan just laughs and unhooks their fingers. He slings an arm around Ford’s shoulders and shakes him, “You’re my brother, after all! I have to like you by law, amiright?”

“Right,” Ford manages weakly and he feels like his face must have a funny expression. One torn between smiling and sulking. But again, if Stan notices, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he peers down the boardwalk, “Want to check out some of these shops?”

Ford nods and they start dipping in and out of various stores. There are the average touristy ones filled with postcards, shot glasses, sunscreen, bathing suits, towels, and pet hermit crabs and then there are the more unique ones. There’s one dedicated specifically to whales and whale themed merchandise, another heavily steeped in stoner culture with a cannabis leaf brightly displayed in the window, hemp necklaces on display, and then there’s a tiny jewel of a record store.

Stan and Ford enter to find the place stacked from floor to ceiling with vintage items and rows upon rows of vinyl albums. There are CDs too, of course, and DVDs but the records are what really draw them in. They flip through the collection of albums – holding up both new and old artists that catch their fancy. Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Little Feet and Talking Heads rest right alongside Arcade Fire, Radiohead, Pearl Jam, and The Cure.

They lament their lack of funds – wishing they could pick up whole slews of them. Stan’s busy looking at the back of a David Bowie record when Ford sees a collection of leather cuffs. He picks one up and turns it this way and that in his hands. It’s a rather nice piece – chocolate brown with a stitched double band and a snap closure in the back. It costs about twenty bucks and he looks over to see if Stan is still distracted.

Once assured that he is, Ford stealthily moves towards the front counter. He reaches into his pocket and drags out his beat up wallet, double checking to make sure he can afford it. He can. Just barely. True – it’s not really money he should be spending right now but…

He quickly purchases it and removes the price tag and wrapper. He shoves it deep into the same pocket where he’s been keeping his wallet and just in the nick of time, as Stan now walks over, eyebrows raised, “You buy something?”

“Nope,” Ford assures him, hoping he sounds convincing. He must, because Stan nudges their shoulders together, “’Kay, well, c’mon…got one more place ta go.”

 

+

 

“Well…what do ya think?”

Ford breathes in deeply through his nose and rests back on his elbows, grinning from ear to ear, “It’s perfect.”

Stan beams, arms wrapped around his knees. They both rest in the back of the open station wagon. The trunk has been raised and they’re lounging on the collection of spread out blankets and pillows that cover the base of the flat back. The car is parked in reverse, its backside facing the beach. The skies are starting to darken – lines of blood orange and red leeching from the golden sun as it gives way to the night’s midnight blue.

The ocean is rolling in soft, easy waves and Stan’s put together a rather fine bonfire a few feet before them. It crackles and roars, perpetually burning on the sand. Ford was pleased to discover everything he’d seen in the bed of the car earlier did indeed have a purpose and were, in fact, all part of Stan’s plans for them.

Including the cooler filled to the brim with cool Pitt Colas. Stan fishes one out now and pops the tab, taking a swig, “Glad you like it.”

Ford can only hum. He’s never felt this at peace. He watches the ocean and lets out a sigh, “It’s gorgeous out there.”

“We could go sailin’ on it sometime…you get that sea sickness under control.”

He rolls his eyes, “I knew once I told you, you’d never let that go.”

“Just a shock. Not only ‘cause it turns out there’s somethin’ about you I didn’t know, but also because I always sorta identified you with the sea. Like I’ve said – I’m fire, you’re ice.”

Ford chews his bottom lip and sits up, “There’s a thought. You could get that for a tattoo.”

“What for a tattoo?”

“Fire,” he returns easily, “Flames are rather common. You could get a ring of them right here.”

He trails a finger over one of Stan’s wrists and he catches Stan flinching. Ford draws back the finger immediately, worried he’s done something wrong but Stan merely clears his throat, “Yeah, yeah. Guess I could.”

“Or-or you…you could wear this,” Ford clumsily offers as he draws out the leather cuff. Stan’s eyes brighten, “Where’d you get that?”

“Back in the record store. I-I saw it and thought it’d…it’d suit you,” Ford holds it out but Stan doesn’t take it. Instead he eagerly offers up the same wrist Ford touched and Ford feels light headed as he secures it into place around Stan’s wrist. Stan shakes it a little and it jiggles just slightly. However, it holds firm and Stan runs the fingers of his free hand over it, marveling, “This is awesome, bro. Guess now we’ll both have jewelry we won’t ever take off, huh?”

He reaches out and flicks a finger at Ford’s necklace when he says this and Ford ducks his head in agreement. A silence rises up between them and Ford starts feeling all sorts of discombobulated. He reaches into the cooler to draw out his own can of cola, needing the distraction. He takes a healthy sip to steady himself, “About my sea sickness – I may or may not be planning on curing it via an invention I’m working on.”

“Oh lord – you and _inventions_ ,” Stan says the word with annoyed affection, “That’s never good. Almost as bad as _Fidds_ and inventions.”

Ford laughs, “Remember when Fidds made that Shame Bot because you ate all of his canned preserves without permission?”

“You mean that monstrosity that caught fire on the linoleum floor of our kitchen?” Stan returns with a scowl and Ford’s laughter grows, “Remember how pissed you were when you found out that he made it from a collection of your new guitar picks and underwear?”

“Yeah! Those picks weren’t cheap! And I didn’t have underwear for _weeks_! Not only ‘cause he used some of ‘em in the construction, but because whatever was left over he made sure to destroy via that dumb tin can!”

“Well, you shouldn’t have eaten those preserves! His Mom sent them.”

“If he didn’t want me to eat them, he should have put his name on them,” Stan argues and Ford’s heard this argument before. It’s an old fight but always fun to bring up because, well, it’s funny. Fiddleford hadn’t really been all _that_ angry – but he had been peeved enough to make the robot and Stan was always vexed by it.

He’d tried to make his own robot – a Foot Bot. He’d actually constructed it before, for a science fair they had had in high school. He tried to make the Foot Bot to get revenge for the Shame Bot, but unlike the Shame Bot, Foot Bot was merely comprised of duct tape, a football, and some of Fidds’s old cowboy boots. It was such a sad, silly thing that the two friends had chosen to just bury the hatchet and move on – much to Ford’s disappointment. He’d been kind of curious to see what other inventions they would cook up.

In contrast to their efforts, Ford’s own inventions were much more modest – the one to cure sea sickness among them. He looks out over the water and feels the strangest sense of impulsiveness take him as he mummers, “You know…there’s other stuff you don’t know about me.”

He can see Stan’s head turn towards him out of the corner of his eyes and he thinks: _This is it. This is the moment. It’s okay. Just tell him. Just say…_

“I have a crus…I had a crush on Fidds.”

This was not what Ford meant to say. But somewhere in the middle of his confession the words just…changed. The heat from the bonfire seems to scald his face as the words leave him and Stan lets out a choked noise, “Wow. Well! Huh. I-I kinda thought at one point maybe you did, but…”

Stan shifts about where he sits and suddenly he gets out of the car. He pokes a stick at the fire and then turns to Ford, voice all casually, “Does he know?”

Ford shakes his head, “No. Don’t think so.”

This just gets him a grunt and Ford feels apprehensive. He wants to shout out that he now has one on Stan but he-he can’t seem to make himself do it. He seizes up and then, as if to add insult to injury, Stan says, “Wait…you said ‘had’ a crush on him. So…you don’t anymore?”

“No.”

“Oh.” This is Stan’s only reply. Just an ‘oh’. And Ford waits. He waits with baited breath. Maybe Stan will ask him. Maybe he’ll ask: _do you have a crush on someone else_? Or:  _do you have a crush on someone now_?

But Stan doesn’t. He doesn’t ask. Instead he looks out at the sea and Ford feels…incomplete. He should just tell him. He should just drudge up the courage and say-

“I have writer’s block.”

The words are so unexpected from Stan that Ford blinks several times, “I-I’m sorry?”

Stan pokes at the fire again, “Or more like song writer’s block. It’s not like it’s some big secret you didn’t know, but well, you didn’t know, so...”

“Oh. Uh. Sorry?”

Stan just shrugs and tugs up the long sleeve of one arm to expose skin, “Might be ‘cause of this.”

Ford sees a thin, flesh colored patch on Stan’s arm and he grins, “Is that what I think it is?”

“I want you to know I’d much rather have a cigarette,” Stan mutters as he lowers the sleeve over the nicotine patch and goes back to poking the fire, “Or a cigar. Cigars are like twelve cigarettes wrapped up into one – delicious.”

“First off, gross. But second – Stanley! I’m so proud of you!” Ford cheers as he gets to his own feet and Stan rolls his eyes but is obviously pleased at the praise, “Well, after you ended up in the hospital – I figured why not? You wanted me to wear the stupid things and I felt…felt like I owed it to you.”

Ford’s eyebrows knit together, confused at this, but Stan explains, “I was…really worried about you. You know? Worried you wouldn’t-” he stops and shakes his head, unable to say he was worried Ford wouldn’t make it, “So I kinda made a promise to myself and to you, when you were, uh…being doctored over. That if you’d…if you’d just wake up and be okay I’d slap on one of these stupid things. And I, well…I keep my promises.”

“I’m glad you do,” Ford returns softly but then Stan gets an evil look on his face that fills him with dread, more so when his brother cagily rumbles, “You know what else I promised myself?”

“Nooooo,” Ford draws out the word carefully, cautiously, “What?”

“That if we went to the coast I’d take a crack at the water!” Stan shouts this even as he’s started running towards the shoreline and Ford’s calling out after him, loudly announcing how stupid that idea is. Which Stan immediately discovers as the freezing cold sea hits him. Ford can’t help but double over with laughter as his twin lets out several yaps and shrieks. _Shrieks_. He didn’t even know Stan’s voice could get that high – he should try singing ‘Bicycle’ now…

Stan dashes back up, soaked and shivering, voice thin and high, “Holy shit! It’s COLD!”

“I could’ve told you that,” Ford pants, still breathless from laughing and Stan’s cowering near the fire, clearly trying to draw the heat from the flames into himself. Ford shakes his head and drags out some of the towels from the back of the station wagon. He shrouds Stan in them and then encourages his bundled up brother to climb into the car. Stan lies down, curled in on himself, shivering, and Ford’s tone is as chastising as it is amused, “You are such an idiot. Jumping into the freezing cold ocean. An absolute knucklehead.”

Ford curls around Stan’s body, rubbing strongly at his arms and sides, his touch quick and sure, "Better?"

Stan eyes are tightly shut and he manages a shaky wobble of his head that screams ‘no’. Ford draws closer, his hands moving with more force as he lines Stan’s back up perfectly with his front, "How about now?"

Stan takes in a shaky breath and shakes his head once more. Ford presses as close as humanly possible, his hot breath heating the shell of Stan’s ear even as it ghosts over his face, "Now?"

Stan trembles, warmth pooling in the center of him, his voice quivering, "Y-Yes."

Ford nods to himself but he doesn’t stop. He keeps rubbing at Stan’s arms and his sides and the heat of everything starts to curl in on him. Stan’s breathing becomes smoother, teeth no longer chattering, his hair shifting from sopping wet to merely damp. Even his toes feel as if they’re defrosting.

Minutes pass in silence and Stan feels himself melting, sinking into a heady warmth that relaxes him, soothes him. But he starts to notice a subtle change in Ford’s hands. Their earlier, harsher movements having given way to something gentler...something more like…caresses...

Stan shivers again, but this time it has nothing to do with being wet or cold. His eyes open, just mere slits, as he breathes, “You make a good big spoon, Ford.”

He can feel Ford’s chest against his back – can feel him breathe, heartbeat thump-thump-thumping against him as Ford whispers, “Glad to hear it.”

Stan just lets out a hum of enjoyment and closes his eyes again. They lie there, just cuddling – Ford spooned against Stan’s back, Stan enjoying the casual feel of Ford’s hands on him and then Ford is tugging him close, holding him – hugging him, burying his face into one of Stan’s shoulders. The only sounds are those of the waves meeting the shore, their gentle breathing, and the steady beats of their hearts.

 

+

 

They drive home almost entirely in silence.

The radio croons out mellow tunes. Nothing as hefty or ballady as before. Just soft rock. The sun has long since set, but it’s not too late – close to ten as they pull up to their apartment building. Stan’s clothes have dried albeit becoming a little stiff. The twins are bone tired as they enter the building so it’s a relief to see the elevator is up and running.

Also, surprisingly, there is not a glut of people using it – so they climb aboard. Still, showing its age (and base functionality) it creaks upwards at a snail’s pace. They’re alone inside and Ford finds his exhaustion giving way to an odd edginess. Today was good. No, better than that – it was great. Fantastic. Flawless. It was special. He searches his mind for a better day and cannot think of one.

His eyes dart over to Stanley and Stan’s not looking at him. He’s staring straight ahead; his profile so similar to Ford’s but so different. He’s so handsome. Captivating. And Ford looks down and sees Stan has his hands hooked in his jeans pockets and the hand closest to him is wearing the leather cuff Ford gave him.

And Ford feels jittery as he finds himself scooting closer to Stan, as he reaches out and carefully, delicately, hooks his pinky around Stan’s. Stan looks down, startled to see Ford touching him. But the action makes him grin. He likes holding hands with Ford – always has – and he easily squeezes it as Ford speaks up, “Thanks for today, Stanley.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I had a great time.”

“Me too.”

“It…it was probably the best time of my life.”

“Your life ain’t over yet, Poindexter,” Stan’s eyes cast downwards towards his feet and he squeezes Ford’s pinky again and then it happens. Ford just casually leans over and kisses his cheek. Stan’s head snaps up – his gaze zeroing in on Ford and Ford…his brother is a blazing beet red. So what can Stan do? He kisses Ford back on his cheek.

Ford’s hand rises, touches the spot where Stan kissed him. Both kisses were fast, nervously given, and now both of them are glowing and the elevator is still taking its time to move upwards. They shuffle closer to one another and it’s like all the oxygen has vacated the premises. They’re both breathing heavily when the doors ding open. Their fingers break away from one another as Stan charges ahead, unsteady hands fumbling to pull out the keys to their place and Ford is right behind him – right, right, _right behind him_.

Stan struggles with the locked front door, cursing madly under his breath and once the door is open he bolts in. Ford comes in behind him and barely has time to shut the door completely behind him before Stan knocks him forcefully up against it and kisses him fully on the mouth. Ford lets out a muted noise but Stan doesn’t hear it – he hears nothing but his blood roaring in his ears as he angles his head, his lips hungry – tongue tracing the edges of Ford’s lips, easing them apart and Ford – _Christ_ – Ford opens his lips so _easily_.

Stan lets out a wild moan as his tongue finally, _finally_ , touches Ford’s. It’s slick and sweet - so, so sweet and then - then it's fire meeting gasoline. Ford’s fingers are grabbing at him, digging sharply into his shoulders and he's kissing Stanley back. He's kissing him _back_. Stan pushes him harder against their front door, their hips rubbing crudely against one another, the pressure and force devastating. Ford whimpers, rocks back against Stanley, fingers moving to roam through Stan’s long, thick, luscious hair. He tugs at the wild curls, none too gently but Stan doesn’t care.

He’s never been this aroused in his life. He’s kissing Ford. He’s kissing Ford? _He’s kissing Ford_. It’s like he’s waited his whole life for this and he can’t even believe it’s happening and it seems surreal, like a particularly lucid dream. It’s feverish madness and his hands go down to Ford’s hips, gripping them hard, almost bruising, lifting them up encouragingly and Ford lets out a choked sob as his legs rise, wrapping around Stan’s middle and they fall bodily back against the door with a loud thump.

Stan rocks up against him again, hands clutching at him as he keeps kissing him. Or, perhaps, it would be more apt to say he’s _devouring_ him. Their lips haven’t broken apart for even one good breath but breathing isn’t needed. It’s overrated and Stan just keeps moving against Ford and he feels like he’s lost his mind. No, scratch that – he _has_ lost it.

This can’t be happening, right? Ford doesn’t like him – not like this. He doesn’t know about Stanley’s feelings and he certainly doesn’t reciprocate them. But then, this certainly _feels_ real. It feels deadly real and serious and so scorchingly hot. Stan’s heart is beating with such strength that he’s not sure he’s going to make it and he’s thankful the door is providing him a surface to push Ford up against, providing support as he kisses him with a mindless savagery.

But then there’s a gasp, the tiniest of breaks and air filters in between them – cool and not wholly unwelcome until Ford’s voice comes out, a ragged, husky mess, “Stanley.”

The guttural sound that leaves Stan at this is beyond animalistic. He carts his brother over towards their kitchen table. Anything that was on it is knocked violently to the floor as Stan clambers over top Ford, grinds down against him and their kissing resumes, takes on an even more intense pace, if possible. Ford’s never been kissed like this, touched like this – and he feels close to exploding already. It’s embarrassing, but true. His dick _aches_. It pulses between them – hard and needy and Ford feels something digging into him – something that he’s positive is Stan’s own erection and that just adds to his lust.

He feels completely shameless as he surges up against Stan, as he starts tearing at his clothing because he needs flesh, he needs skin – he needs sex. He never thought he’d need sex – hell, he’s never even _had_ it. But he feels like he’s going to die if he doesn’t have it or doesn’t have _something_ like it soon. Stanley. He needs _Stanley_. It’s more than a want – it’s a bone deep, soul crushing _need_. He feels like if he doesn’t have Stanley soon he’ll die.

_He’ll die._

Stan, for his part, seems just as crazed. He yanks off Ford’s beanie and clutches at his brother’s skull, tugs at his fluffy hair and then reaches down, scrapping his hands up under Ford’s shirt just like Ford imagined earlier in the day and the feel of Stan’s hands on his bare skin is beyond gratifying. Neither of them has spoken, neither of them has stopped to speak. There’s no need for talking – there’s only the need for this – for skin and kissing and ragged panting.

The air is filled with the sounds of it – their gasps and moans and the soft, slick clicks of their lips meeting again and again, tongues tangling and dueling – exploring and searching and Stan’s hips snap against Ford’s and Ford wails, head knocking hard back against the wood of the cheap table beneath them because he’s so close, so close, _so close_.

And there’s another sound – something rhythmic and repeating and at first Ford thinks that it’s the table beneath them but then he realizes that that sound is more squeaky, more urgent and the other sound is…it’s a forceful pounding. Like knocking. Knocking? The knocking grows in volume and there’s another sound – an annoying one – like a cell phone’s jingle.

Then they hear it.

“STANFORD! STANFORD – YOU IN THERE?!”

They both freeze. They both simultaneously feel their blood turn to ice, lips sliding away from one another, kissing ending in a standstill as a familiar voice booms through the front door, “FORD?! IT’S YOUR FATHER.”

Stan looks down at Ford and his face is – it’s a mask of horror. Ford swallows and he can’t even find the air to curse. He just…he carefully eases himself away from Stan. It’s difficult. It’s difficult to unlock their bodies and his cock still throbs in his jeans, hard and unsatisfied. He clears his throat and shouts back, voice a hollow echo, “I’m here.”

He looks at Stan, “Give me a second.”

Stan just looks at him. Ford licks his lips and runs a hand through his hair. He adjusts his clothing as best as possible. He doesn’t look at Stanley. He can’t. He doesn’t know if Stan is straightening himself up or not. He doesn’t want to know, he can’t bear to look. Instead he walks hesitantly, halting, towards the front door.

There’s another knock and Ford swallows again, throat thick and it’s hard to find his voice, “Yes, yes – Coming!”

Ford doesn’t know if he looks okay. He doesn’t know anything anymore. He opens the door and his parents… _their_ parents, wait on the other side.

Their parents. They have the _same_ parents. Ford feels his eyes drift closed and it’s like a heavy weight is crashing down on him, even as his mother puts away her cell and lets out a girlish cry of delight, clutching him close, “Aw! My baby!”

Ford doesn’t hug her back. He just…stands there. Frozen. Stock still. He feels…lost.

Mrs. Pines doesn’t notice. Instead she pulls away, all big smiles, “And where’s my other baby?”

“Hey, Ma.” Stan’s voice drifts to Ford’s ears and he shuts his eyes, wanting nothing more than to disappear.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter - Implied homophobia, references to pastchild abuse, violence, blood

Stan doesn’t understand what’s happening.

If anything – he’s pretty sure he’s lost his damn mind. One moment he was kissing his brother – he was kissing _Ford_. He had Ford _beneath_ him. He was living out every daydream, every heated fantasy, every wish and hope he’s had for _years_. His entire world, his complete understanding of everything as he knews it, was turned over.  Obliterated. Changed.

It was all breathtakingly new and perfect. Perfect. Kissing Ford…Ford actually kissing him _back_. Perfect. No, wait – there must be a stronger word, right? Sublime, maybe? Flawless? Impeccable? Hell, there’s probably nothing that can adequately describe how wonderful it was. And then! And THEN. The knock on the door. Their father’s voice. Their mother’s face.

And now their parents are here. They’re in their _home_. Their sanctuary. And seeing his mother isn’t so terrible, but their _father_. The title comes into his mind as a disgusted hiss. Stan’s arms cross, blunt fingernails digging ruthlessly into his arms as he looks the man over.

Filbrick Pines hasn’t changed an inch – yes, perhaps a few more gray hairs, but otherwise? Otherwise he’s still the exact picture of stern disapproval given human form. His head of thick hair is covered with a fedora, dark shades in place to hide his perpetually bloodshot, cold eyes. Bushy mustache over that slant of a mouth that’s probably never smiled a day in its existence. And it’s certainly not smiling now. If anything it’s sneering worse than ever as he walks around their apartment, inspecting everything – no, wait – _judging_ everything.

This is confirmed when he dryly mutters, “So, this is where you boys live?”

Stan’s eyes narrow, hackles immediately raised at the man’s tone. Mrs. Pines, oblivious as always, merely clucks her tongue as she bows down and starts picking up errant bits of forgotten clothing, collecting them into her arms, “It sure is messy enough! Honestly – you two move out and are old enough to afford a place of your own; you think you’d be responsible enough to clean up after yourselves!”

“Mom, you don’t have to do that,” Ford argues cautiously, taking the clothes from her and his face is still flushed. It’s pink and warm and Stan just wants to scream. He wants to physically pick both of his parents up and toss them out. Then he wants to lock the door and drag Ford down to the carpet and have his way with him. He wants to _wreck_ him.

Instead he has to stand here and boil with the strangest combination of emotions. Barely repressed rage and thinly leashed arousal. The two war within him – biting and clawing at one another and he feels like he’s seething, breathing off track. He’s not sure which one is going to win until Mr. Pines walks over towards the closed doors of their bedrooms.

Showing absolutely no regards for his children’s privacy, Filbrick opens first the door to Fiddleford’s room, then the one to the bathroom, and then the one to Stan and Ford’s combined room. He looks into this one and his scornful expression grows tenfold, “You two sharin’ a room. Still?”

Ford takes the clothes he’s managed to take back from their mother and dumps them into the open doorway, looking beyond sheepish, “Uh, yeah. Felt it was for the best. Fiddleford pays part of the rent, so he deserves his own space.”

Their father just grunts in response to this, eyes still casting into the darkened bedroom even as Ford tries to covertly shut the door. Mrs. Pines perks up, “Oh! That’s the boy you all call Fidds, right? Your roommate? Where is he?”

“He’s, ah, with his girlfriend.” Ford answers and he almost has the door fully shut when Filbrick lays a firm hand on it, halting its motion, “You two share a bed?”

“It’s-it’s more economical,” Ford squeaks and Filbrick turns to look at him. Ford hunches up, grows smaller, and Stan marches over, ready for the fight their father is so clearly is trying to pick with them. This seems confirmed as their old man grumbles, “You two are a bit old for that, aren’t you.”

“He just told you!” Stan snaps, “We do it ‘cause it’s _cheaper_.”

Stan grips the doorknob hard and practically slams the bedroom door shut as he glares at him, “What’re you two even doin’ here anyway?!”

“ _Stanley_!” Mrs. Pines gasps and Stan feels a momentary twinge of regret. He’s about to apologize to his mother when Filbrick cuts him off, walking away with his hands in his pockets as he continues his perusal of their place, “Your brother called. Asked for our help.”

Stan directs wide eyes at Ford who avoids his gaze. Instead he looks down at the floor and his hands…his hands are behind his back. He’s _hiding_ his _hands_. Of course he’s hiding them. He never keeps them on display around their parents. Scratch that. He never keeps them on display around _him_. And Stan bets the scar on Ford’s back is twitching and the rage wins the battle inside him as he asks his father through clenched teeth, “What?”

The man merely hums, unmoved but voice still colored with derision, “Apparently he was at some frat party where he drank too much and had to be hospitalized. He requested a loan and, considering it was close to the holidays, your mother suggested we deliver it in person.”

“Now Filbrick,” Mrs. Pines crisply interjects, “Don’t make it sound like it was all my idea. You expressed interest in seeing the boys yourself.”

“I did,” he returns succinctly as he opens the sliding glass doors and steps out on to the balcony to check out the view before coming back in, eyes still searching, still assessing, still _judging_ , “Mainly because I was curious to see what kind of environment you’ve been wasting your time in, Stanford.”

“I-? Wha-?” Ford can’t form words and Stan’s inches from exploding as their father closes the door behind him, “Well, I can only assume you’re wasting time if you have enough of it to throw away at some stupid social event.”

“Oh no, no,” Ford falls all over himself to explain, “I’m-I’m making great grades, Dad! Promise! I’m-I’m on track to finish off this term with flying colors and then I’ll be on to my first PhD and-!”

“Yet you went to a _party_ ,” Filbrick argues, his words dripping with contempt, “Instead of studying. Instead of working. Do you really want to jeopardize your scholarship this way? Do you want to lose it?”

“I won’t-!” Ford starts but Filbrick interrupts, “You will if you don’t knock it off and straighten up, ya knucklehead! I won’t have you throw away your future ‘cause you’re too busy screwin’ around! I didn’t send you out here to play games! I sent you out here to make something of yourself! To do right by us!”

“Hey!” Stan objects hotly, “You want to blame someone for the party – you blame me! _I_ was the one who talked him into going.”

“Of course you did. No surprise there.” Filbrick snorts, regarding Stanley with his normal expression of condescension, “Lemme guess – you were playing your guitar?”

“Yeah, it was a gig.”

“A gig?” Filbrick repeats as if the word is distasteful, “Right. Whatever. Unpaid, I take it?”

“It’s always nice to have someone listen to me,” Stan supplies, then mumbles under his breath, “Unlike you.”

“Excuse me?” His father asks, voice deadly as he charges over, gets in his son’s personal space, “What was that?”

Stan feels himself clam up. He hates himself for it. But he feels himself go rigid, mouth trembling as his father’s hot breath hits his face, “You want to repeat yourself, boy? Huh? Speak up!”

“Filbrick,” Mrs. Pines soothes, her hands going for his shoulders, rubbing them gently, “Calm down. He didn’t mean anything. Besides, you’re tired. It was a long flight.”

He turns and looks at his wife, who offers a gentle smile. He draws away from Stan, who is damn near shaking with volatile emotion. Filbrick grunts and pushes up his glasses, “It _was_ a long flight. We woulda just gone to the hotel but your mother insisted we stop by. Thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

A choked sound escapes Stan and it’s heavily weighted in a kind of maddened hysteria. Yeah. A _nice_ surprise. Uh huh. Sure. _Right_. He looks over at Ford who still has his eyes directed downwards. Ford called them. He called them and asked for _money_. He called them and he didn’t even tell Stanley about it! Stan sucks in a loud breath through his nose as Filbrick resumes his stalking prowl around their apartment, “You ever take any _paid_ gigs?”

“Not yet. I haven’t done much playing besides-” Stan doesn’t get any farther in his answer, Mr. Pines impatiently overriding his words, “Not with your guitar, numbskull! I already know you ain’t doing right by that. Honestly never expected you to – musicians are a dime a dozen. Only a talented handful make money off of it. No, I’m asking you if you have a _real_ job.”

Stan’s fists _ache_. They’re balled so tightly that he’s sure his nails have broken skin as he struggles to be civilized, “ _Yes_. I do construction. I also work at a coffee shop.”

Filbrick hums again, “Yes, I’ve heard. A very menial profession.”

“But I’m sure it pays the bills,” Mrs. Pines lightly offers, as ever playing the part of intermediary, “Besides, it frees up Ford to concentrate on school and Stanley to work towards his own pursuits. Like his music.”

Now it’s Filbrick who lets out a choked sound and even though Stan can’t see through his shades he _knows_ the old bastard rolled his eyes. And then Filbrick’s gaze lands on the bouquet of floors on the kitchen counter. He jabs an accusatory finger at them as he gruffly asks, “What the hell are those?”

“Flowers?” Ford answers meekly and Stan wants to tug him close, wants to assure him that everything is just fine and he shouldn’t feel ashamed or frightened. But instead red starts dotting his vision as his father snaps, “Yeah, I can see that! Where the hell did you get ‘em?”

“Preston,” Ford blurts out then adds in a rush, “My-my friend Preston.”

Stan knows why Ford called Preston his ‘friend’. It would be too hard to explain him as anything else. But the way the color drains from Filbrick’s face, the way his mouth drops…it’s clear he’s completely misread the definition. And as quickly as he pales, he reddens as he huffs, “Your-your friend? _Your friend_? Oh god! Are you-? You’re-you’re not-?”

He can’t even say the word and Ford’s eyes grow so big it looks like it hurts. He starts waving his hands, ready to deny all of it but Stanley? Stanley’s had it. He’s reached his limit. He’s completely done. The red takes over entirely as he shouts, “SO WHAT?”

Everyone turns to him and Stan can’t stop. He can’t _stop_. Not at his father’s mounting mixture of horror and anger, not at his mother’s worry, not at Ford’s utter shock – he just barrels on; crazy, wild words vomiting out of him at full speed, “So what if they’re from a guy? You have a problem with that? You have a problem with him being gay?!”

Ford collapses.

He actually collapses.

He falls back against the nearest wall and sinks to the floor, palms up and open as he just…stares. Horrified. Mouth hanging open. Stan sees this. He sees this but he still can’t _stop_. He just – he can’t stop. He’s lost in a whirlwind as Filbrick sputters a ‘No’ but Stan just barrels on, “That’s not what your face says! Or your voice! You know what?! Why don’t you just get the hell outta our place!”

“Stanley,” Mrs. Pines whispers tumultuously, “Stanley, this isn’t fair.”

“FAIR?!” Stan shouts, “You wanna talk about fair?! What about the way he treats us? The things he says to us? And what he did to Ford? Did he ever even tell you that he-!”

“That’s ENOUGH, Stanley!” the words burst from Ford’s mouth, loud and fierce but he hasn’t risen from where he’s fallen. If anything he looks…more stricken. His eyes are closed; his head tipped back, throat working before he curls in tightly on himself. Curls in like a piece of paper that’s caught flame – that’s turning to ash, as he tearfully pleads, “That’s…that’s enough.”

Stanley is breathing heavily and the red…the red is fading away. It’s slipping through his fingertips, leaving him defenseless. His righteous anger is becoming…so bitter. And their father doesn’t say another word. He just…walks out. He leaves the apartment. Their mother looks at each of them in turn, face unspeakably sad as she says, “We’ll…we’ll call you later. Okay, babies?”

She departs and the twins are alone. Stan stands there – breathless and stunned. Oh god. Oh fuck. What has he just done? He turns and it’s on the tail end of Ford getting to his feet, Ford going into their room, shutting the door behind him and locking it. Quietly. He does all of this oh so _quietly_. He doesn’t slam the door. He doesn’t stomp away. He’s…quiet.

And Stan turns towards the door, his heart broken. He wants to pound on it, wants to beg Ford to let him in when he hears it. The sound of their mattress creaking, the sound of pillows and blankets shuffling and then ( _oh no, oh no_ ) then he hears it. A hitch of breath, a muffled sob – Ford is _crying_. Stan made Ford _cry_.

Stan can’t stand it. He can’t stand it. Not for another second. He lets out a frustrated bellow and he turns. Goes towards the front door and without another thought he plunges a fist into the nearby wall. He breaks the plaster. He puts his fist right _through_ it. It cracks, the material flimsy but still strong enough that his knuckles are immediately shot with blinding pain and he just – he punches it again. And again and again.

Blood smears on the white paint and he runs his hand along it, spreads it before he pushes away and leaves. His eyes are hot, cloudy as tears flood down his face. They curve into his mouth, drip down his jaw, and trail along his neck. He flees the apartment – he can’t get away fast enough. He leaves the building, he hits the streets and he runs. He runs and runs.

 

+

 

Running has given way to walking. And walking and walking and walking. Stan’s steps are slow, _arduous_. He has no fucking idea where he’s going. He keeps no track of direction, has no destination in mind. He just…walks. He walks until his legs are numb, until all his tears dry. He walks until his mind is as blank and empty as his heart.

The night is dark and bottomless. Pitiless. He passes bars, clubs, clumps of people, cars, convenience stores – it’s all just blurs of sight and sound. He wanders into a store – gets a pack of cigarettes and a cheap lighter. At some point he removes his patch, lets it fall to the ground – an abandoned scrap of nothing. He sucks down one stick and then another and another.

He’s never smoked so continuously. He’s like a walking chimney – smoke curling out of him, wrapping around him, hugging him in its shadowy embrace. It trails after him, dissipating slowly. His lungs burn and a there’s a fire kindled in the very center of him. A fire that _burns_. His mouth tastes of ashes, dry and flavorless.

Ford had a flavor…fuck, he was so _sweet_. God, was that only a few hours ago? How long can a fucking day be? How bad? How good? How can it all happen at once? He’s lost in a tidal wave. This can’t possibly have all happened it one day, right? It’s impossible. You can’t go from so high to so low on the turn of a dime like this. It doesn’t seem possible.

But it _is_ possible. He knows that. He knows it better than anyone. Life is shitty like that. One second you’re kissing the boy you’ve loved your entire life, the next…

Stan looks around and sighs. Exhaustion is starting to weigh on him and he thinks about going to Susan’s place. He can’t go home. He can’t face Ford – not right now. But just as soon as the idea comes to him, he quickly discards it. He can’t face her. And he definitely can’t face Fidds – not after what he did. He can’t stand the idea of trying to explain it to them. He can just imagine their faces – the hurt, the disappointment. No – he can’t go to them.

The shop? No, it’s closed and he’s not going to go look for Toby or Shandra. Manly Dan? No, Stan remembers he’s on a job in Sacramento. He digs out his cell phone and he scrolls through his contacts. He doesn’t have many. Finally he finds one he hasn’t used in a dog’s age. Hell, it might not even be connected anymore.

But he decides to give it a shot. It rings and rings and just as he’s about to hang up he gets a slurred, “Yeah, this’s Jimmy.”

“Hey Jim, it’s Stan,” when he gets no response he presses on, “Stanely Pines.”

“Oh! Hey Kitten, what’s up?”

“Was wondering if you were in town - my town to be exact," he feels like an idiot talking this way, but the other man seems unfazed.

“Matter of fact I am. Scare-O-Dactyls had a run in with the One Eyed Snakes. I lent a hand – not ta mention I got a new set of ink thanks to Tats. Man’s an artist.” Jimmy says, completely unaware that Stan’s sort of hopping from foot to foot, not needing the long exposition, “Okay, cool. Well, um, I was just wonderin’…any way I can stay at your place? Just for tonight?”

There’s a long pause on the other end before he hears, “Look, I thought I made it clear to you then – I’m a one night stand kinda guy. We had ours. It was a blast, but I ain’t lookin’ for anything more serious.”

“No, no, no,” Stan intones adamantly, “I’m not-! I don’t want to do that. I’m not calling for that. I just need a place to crash.”

There’s a loud sigh on the other end, “Well…I suppose I could let you use the armchair in my motel room. But it’d just be for the one night, right?”

“I swear. Just the one,” Stan returns firmly and he can damn near hear Jimmy’s nod on the other end,“Alright. Where you at?”

Stan realizes he actually has no idea and he looks around to get a handle on where exactly he is. He gives Jimmy directions and then hangs up. He finds a nearby bus bench and sits on it, mind slowly coming back from its blank state.

Ford.

Fuck. How can he ever apologize to him? Ever make this up to him? His twin probably hates his guts right now. And he has every right to. Stan’s done some stupid shit in his day, but this one has to take the cake. It’s just –their father makes him so angry. It’s like he loses all reason. All sense. Stan thinks over his actions and groans. _Fuck_! He told the old man Ford was gay.

What the hell had he been thinking?! Oh, that’s right – he _hadn’t_ been thinking! He’d been a self-centered, childish jackass who made his brother cry and god – that was going to haunt him _forever_. The quiet sound of the door closing. The gentle click of the lock. The sound of Ford trying to muffle his tears.

And Stan feels close to crying again just as he hears a motorcycle engine purring. He looks up and sees his old pal Jimmy Snakes pull up to the curb. The man is just as he remembers him – wiry but strong. A bit of a boxer’s build – hair long and glorious golden. He still has a healthy set of mutton chops, which he runs a hand over now, “Holy shit! You look like several miles of bad road!”

Stan just grunts and then Jimmy points to his left hand, “Fuck happened there?”

He lifts the hand and examines it. The blood has dried but it looks _awful_. It’s swollen in places, coated in dry blood and he flexes it a few times just to assure himself it’s not broken as he mumbles, “Punched a wall.”

“Wall have it coming?” Jimmy jokes and Stan merely shrugs. Jimmy leans over the handlebars of his bike, “Seriously, Kitten. Tell Daddy what happened.”

It was talk like this that got Stan into Jimmy’s bed in the first place. Now it just makes him feel…sad. And then, much to his surprise, Jimmy offers, “You finally tell that Ford kid ya love him?”

Stan’s head jerks up, “What?”

“That was his name, right? Pretty sure I remembered it right. After all, you don’t really forget a name when the cute guy you’re fucking screams it when he comes.”

Something in Stan’s stomach drops and he feels faint, “I…? What?”

Jimmy lets out a laugh, “Aw, come on! Don’t look like that, baby! It’s no biggie. I get it. Fucked lots people who’ve said other names while we was goin’ at. I don’t pick nobody up with the idea of hearts an’ roses. That happily ever after bullshit.”

“I…I said Ford’s name?” Stan breathes and he tries to remember that night. He’d been sort of drunk at the time, but not enough to feel like his consent wasn’t genuine. He’d wanted Jimmy. He’d wanted the sex. He can easily recall the man riding him as expertly as he rides his bike. Can still remember the rush of being taken…but he honestly doesn’t remember a word he said.

Apparently Jimmy does.

The biker has a sympathetic look as he reaches behind him and offers Stan his other helmet, “Come on. Climb aboard.”

Blindly Stan takes the helmet secures it, looking lost. Jimmy shakes his head, “Was it that bad? He turn you down or somethin’?”

“No,” Stan supplies tonelessly, “No. It was something else it was…you ever just-just have a crazy, crazy day? Like, a really crazy day. One that you can’t even believe really even happened it was so nuts?”

“Sure. Like to have those once a month. Makes life interestin’,” Jimmy returns but, catching sight of Stan’s damaged hand again, some of his amusement drops off, “First I’mma take you to an old buddy of mine. Get that mitt of yours fixed up. Then you can tell me all ‘bout your sweetheart. Believe it or not – I’mma helluva listener.”

“You don’t want to hear-”

“Sure I do!” Jimmy interjects with a massive grin, lowering his shades just enough so Stan can see his eyes are sincere, “Might not ever want it for myself, but I believe in love, man. And love stories are some good shit. You ever see that movie ‘The Longest Ride’? That’s some crazy romantic shit right there. Loved it.”

Stan marvels over the idea of Jimmy Snakes of all people watching a Nicholas Sparks film while he clambers up onto the bike. He rests his face against the man’s leather jacket, eyes sealing shut. The last time he’d done this, his nerves had been at an all-time high, hormones buzzing with the excitement of what was to come. Now it’s the extreme opposite. He feels…cold. Burned out. Empty.

Jimmy’s bike roars off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy Snakes is an unused character from a scrapped episode- We only know about him from this [tweet](https://twitter.com/_alexhirsch/status/687754946758836224) by Alex Hirsch. Thanks to Stanonymous for link!
> 
> Jimmy Snakes calling Stan 'Kitten' credited to [reganwarren](http://reaganwarren.tumblr.com/)


	15. Chapter 15

The motel is a dump.

It’s a U-shaped, two story establishment with big, open rusty stairwells, all the doors facing out towards the parking lot. There’s a sketchy looking pool glowing at the center and a couple of lousy vending machines with flickering neon bases. Jimmy parks and motions Stanley to follow him. They jog up the stairs and walk all the way down to a room on the very end.

There’s an insane amount of noise coming from this end. An electric guitar is shredding out savage squeals alongside a drum’s thudding beats. There’s also someone straight up caterwauling and Jimmy pounds on the door without remorse, the entrance shaking under the force. The noise doesn’t stop. He pounds at it again – harder, if possible, and snarls, “Open up, ya bag’a dicks!”

“FUCK OFF!” a voice roars in response and Jimmy rolls his head about his neck, his muscles audibly cracking. He snaps each set of knuckles and then rams his full weight against the door with one shoulder. It bursts open, frame warping slightly under the assault. Stan recently forced his way through a door, but that had been different. That door had been wood. This one is friggin’ _metal_. It’s like Jimmy is the damned Terminator or something as he moves into the room, totally cool about his actions.

The electric guitar screeches to a halt and the drums drop off. Stan comes face to face with a rather questionable looking trio. One of them is wearing a big pair of orange cat ears and looks to be a perfect blend of scraggly and scrawny. Another is far more serene – he has on a weird eagle looking helm with a long cloak. And then there’s the guy with the guitar – his hair is composed of wild platinum waves and he has a very disconcerting unibrow, which currently narrows as he scowls, “Oh. It’s y-y-you. Fuck you want, Jimmy? Can’t you see we’re practicing?”

Jimmy doesn’t seem at all moved by the guy’s attitude and instead pushes Stan forward, “Kitten’s got a busted paw. Fix it.”

“HOLL, “the guy pauses mid word to loudly blech before continuing, “EEY SHIT! Look at the size of this thing!”

He carefully puts aside his guitar before he takes up Stan’s wounded (and now rather large) hand. The swelling’s gotten worse. Stan’s been so distracted with his own thoughts that he’s just now starting to realize it hurts. He didn’t think it was broken before, but it sure as hell is throbbing now. The guitarist looks up into his eyes with deep scrutiny, “Wh- _urp_!-at the fuck you know? You sure as shit are fuckable. What’s yer name again?”

“I’m,” Stan flatters, unprepared for the flirtatious look that’s now being shot his way, “Pines. Stanley Pines.”

“Knock it off, Rick. He ain’t interested.”

“Why don’t you let _him_ answer, YMCA?” Rick shoots back and Jimmy just shakes his head. He points to each of the guys in turn – starting with the guy currently feeling up Stanley’s injured hand (and other, ah, places) “Stan – this is Rick Sanchez. Guy with the cat ears is Squanchy and that somber faced dude is Birdperson.”

“Bird…person?”

“Don’t ask,” Jimmy pleads as Squanchy puts down his drum sticks and gets to his feet, “Well! If we’re takin’ a break I’m going to go squanch! Be back.”

He disappears into the bathroom and just as Stan’s about to open his mouth and ask what ‘squanching’ is, he catches Jimmy’s eyes above his shades and he hears the unspoken answer. Right. Don’t ask. He gets the impression that’s how he should play out this whole situation. Birdperson (what the hell kinda name is _Birdperson_ anyway?!) also gets to his feet, his voice deep and monotone, “I will go get some fresh air. Rick, if you plan on engaging in sexual intercourse with these men, I would request that you place a sock on the doorknob so as to alert me.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Stan protests to Birdperson’s back as he smoothly takes his leave, “I’m not-! We’re not-! Hey, buddy! Watch the merchandise, will ya!” This last bit is bellowed at Rick, whose hands have moved on to Stan’s ass, pinching it mercilessly, his face is coy, “M-Merchandise, eh? You for sale?”

“I am not! I-! Wait, how much we talkin’?” Stan asks but then just as swiftly he violently shakes his head, “Wait, _no_! No, I am _not_ up for sale!”

“Knock it off, Sanchez,” Jimmy grumbles, “Poor kid’s got his head turned all around. He’s in love.”

Rick just lets out a string of filthy curses, his hands dropping away from Stan’s body. He draws out a flask from his black leather vest and takes several healthy gulps before he burps again, his lips wet with liquor, “Love. Talk-talk-talk ‘bout some BULLSHIT. Love isn’t anything but a biological need to prop-prop-propagate the species.”

“You sound like my brother.” Stan laments and Rick’s eyes grow huge, “ _Ohhhh_ shit, son! You’re in love with your BROTHER?!”

Stan’s face must say everything because even _Jimmy_ sees it. He takes his shades and purposefully slides them farther down his nose just so he can look Stan in the eye, “Seriously?”

Stan doesn’t say a word. Instead he feels his skin heat. Jimmy’s head rears back and it’s clear he’s received the silent answer, “Ford is your _brother_? Aren’t you two twins?”

Again, no words, but it doesn’t matter. Stan knows his color must have taken on a deeper hue and Rick? Rich busts out laughing. His laughter is damn near hysterical as he wipes at his eyes, “Man, that’s fuckin’ _priceless_! And _hot_. I’d love to roll into the middle of that. You got space for one more?”

Jimmy swipes out at Rick but he dodges it, “Aw, come on, Jimmy! Like you wer- _urrrrp!_ -en’t thinking the same thing.”

Jimmy doesn’t deny it and Stan feels the weirdest cross between flattered and embarrassed. However, Rick has apparently gotten over his fun and he goes for Stan’s hand again. He eyes it, taking another pull from his flask, “Got-got something that’ll fix this. Any reason I should? Other than you being a brotherfucker?”

“I’m-! We-we haven’t-!” Stan starts but Rick just laughs again as he rummages through his luggage, clearly looking for something, “Aw, don’t sound so disappointed! Sure-sure it’ll happen soon enough. But you should-should just think of it as _lust_ , Pines. Love doesn’t exist.”

“That ain’t true,” Jimmy argues but Rick just snorts, “Says the guy who fucks ‘em and leaves ‘em.”

“Not always,” he returns quietly, “Stan is here, isn’t he?”

Rick looks over at Stan with interest, “Really? You had the pretty boy?”

Stan objects to the phrase ‘pretty boy’. He’s never, ever thought of himself as ‘pretty’. But it’s clear he’s not part of the conversation, never mind the fact that it’s about _him_ and he’s in the friggin’ _room_. Jimmy’s attention is focused solely on Rick, “Had you once too, remember?”

“Yeah. That was a helluva night. Never thought I’d get that kink outta my back,” Rick chuckles and he picks up a funny looking device. He turns it this way and that, momentarily contemplating it before summarily shaking his head and tossing it aside, continuing his search, “Yet you still keep talking to me. Funny that, huh? Thought you were the hit it and quit it type.”

“I am. But I’m still friendly with the important ones. The good ones.”

“So Stanley and me, eh?” Rick turns to Stan, offers him a wink, “We the lu- _urpp!_ -lucky ones?”

Jimmy just nods and Rick clicks his tongue as he damn near crawls inside one of his duffle bags. With Rick finally growing quiet and the other two men gone, Stan can finally look around the room. It’s in complete shambles. Dirty clothes and a variety of discarded take out boxes are everywhere. The television screen is cracked and both bedside table lamps are broken. He looks thoughtfully at the instruments and Jimmy catches him looking, “Rick’s a musician like you. It’s why he and his buddies are in town. They’re playing a set at the Rialto. You might’a heard of ‘em.  ‘The Flesh Curtains’?”

“No way,” Stan breathes, eyes growing wide, “ _The_ Flesh Curtains? I heard them play when I first moved to town! They played a packed house at the Lamont!”

Rick groans, his voice coming out as a muffled echo from where he is in the bag, “The Lamont’s a shit venue.”

“What? No! They’ve had _loads_ of big names play there!”

“Trust me, Pines. It’s a shit venue,” Rick grumbles and he’s tossing things this way and that. He gets his hands on a shirt and balls it up before lobbing it at Stan’s head, “Here, brotherfucker. Free t-shirt.”

The nickname still bugs him, but Stan unfolds the shirt and sees the band’s name brightly emblazoned on it. He may have his pride, but he’s not going to turn down a free shirt. He hugs it close to himself, secretly happy to have it as Rick emerges from the depths of the duffle bag holding what looks suspiciously like a ray gun, “Give me your hand. This’ll fix it.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Your mom’s vibrator,” Rick deadpans, “What do you think it is?”

“Some invention,” Stan murmurs, “You really _are_ like my brother.”

“You trying to flatter me or fuck me?” Rick asks, waggles his one eyebrow, “Or both?”

Stan feels himself color again and is growing steadily irritated by it. He’s not the kind to be so easily knocked off kilter. That’s more his job to do to others. Yet somehow Rick keeps him on his toes. So much so, he barely catches on when Rick takes his hand and aims the strange gun over it. He fires a swift shot and Stan, much to his dismay, yelps.

But – well – dammit. It _stings_.

But only for a second. Next thing he knows, his hand damn near deflates, the swollenness giving way to his hand’s normal dimensions. The scabs that were forming dissolve, the broken skin mends and his hand is fixed. Totally unblemished, as if he never struck anything in his life. He marvels over it as Rick playfully blows at the tip of the gun before twirling it around one finger, “Toldja.”

“Thanks,” Stan shyly offers and he looks at their gear with more interest, “Can’t believe I’m hanging with The Flesh Curtains.”

“Stan plays the guitar. He’s pretty good,” Jimmy offers and Stan wants to object, bashful to even try to compare his skills to professionals, but Rick’s eyes glint with interest again, “Oh yeah?”

He tosses his guitar at Stan, “Let’s-let’s s-see what you got.”

Stan feels like he probably has stars in his eyes. He’s touching the electric guitar used by The Flesh Curtains. Rick Sanchez is the lead guitarist. Truth be told, Stan never knew the band members names when they played. In fact, that concert was a long, long time ago. But he never forgot the music. The rich, visceral sound of it. The sound that screamed that this was _real_ music. And their performance! So energetic and powerful! It had been a phenomenal show.

And now here he is, holding this beauty of a six string. It’s leagues different from Goldie and he almost feels as if he’s cheating as he strums it. The sounds he draws out are sweet. Nowhere near rocker level. More melancholy. He completely expects Rick to rip the instrument from his hands and tell him to fuck off, to get the fuck out.

But instead, much to his supreme surprise, Rick merely closes his head and nods along. As if he…likes it? And Jimmy looks taken too. Stan plays for a while and when he finally stops, Rick gives him one firm clap before taking his shoulder in one hand and shaking it, “Well, you don’t completely suck.”

“That’s high praise coming from him,” Jimmy assures Stan, “Now – how’s about you and me go back to my room? I’m beat.”

“Hey, you two sure you don’t want me to put a sock on the doorknob? Birdperson’s not back yet and Squanchy’s probably all squanched out. Got the place to ourselves,” Rick falls back onto one of the creaky beds enticingly. He runs the tip of his tongue temptingly along his top lip as one hand dances down his long, lean frame. His vest falls open, revealing his bare chest, nipples tight and pink. Stan’s mouth does dry at the sight, but he shakes his head.

Rick scowls and snatches up the nearby television remote. He starts flipping through channels, clearly planning on ignoring them now that they’ve turned down his offer. His voice is sour as he mutters, “Whatever. Suit yourself. Your loss.”

“Don’t be a sore loser, Rick,” Jimmy huffs with amusement, “Told you, only once. And again, boy’s in love.”

The annoyed groan that comes up out of Rick is heavy with revulsion, “And _I_ told you. Love’s a crock of shit.”

“Huh. Really?” Jimmy teases, “So then – how’s Beth?”

Rick hurls the remote at Jimmy with all his strength. The biker easily dodges it and the device shatters against the nearby wall. Stan’s completely lost now, “Who’s Beth?”

Jimmy opens his mouth to answer but Rick cuts him off, eyes on the crappy motel ceiling as he growls, “She’s my daughter, you nosy bitch!”

Stan’s eyes widen slightly at this revelation. Rick doesn’t look that much older than him. Stan can’t imagine what it would be like to have a kid. Jimmy eases closer, whispering warmly into his ear, “Says he doesn’t believe in love – but trust me. He’s crazy about that rug rat.”

“That’s not the kind of love we’re talking about and you know it.” Rick grumbles, finding his flask again and chugging it as Jimmy lightly volleys back, “You had to make Beth somehow.”

“Condoms break.” Is fired back just as quickly and Rick looks the picture of bored.

“That’s not how Birdperson tells it.”

“Hey! Easy Rider! How’s about you and Game of Thrones hit the bricks!” Rick hisses and Jimmy just tosses his head back and laughs loudly. Stan follows after him and Jimmy must see some expression on his face, because he gently offers, “Don’t worry. He really likes you. I can tell.”

Stan wants to argue that he doesn’t care either way, but he knows that’s not true. However, Jimmy’s words ring true when they turn to leave and Rick snaps, “Wait.”

They stop and Rick stumbles to his feet. He snatches a pen off a nearby counter and grabs Stan’s fixed hand. Stan’s expression is puzzled until he feels the pen lightly rolling along the palm of his hand, “Here’s my number. ‘Case you change your mind.”

Stan looks down at the scribbled digits, stunned, but Rick just loudly belches, “Remember – I’ll take you solo or with your double mint twin. Jimmy – you’re _not_ invited.”

Jimmy just smirks as he leaves. Stan follows after him, still looking at the number, his head spinning. They go to Jimmy’s room and Stan finds himself lurching towards the armchair. Suddenly it all washes over him. He looks at the clock and sees it’s the wee hours of the morning. He sits on the chair and before he can draw another breath exhaustion crashes down on him, drawing him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

+

 

Ford wakes up the next day and finds that Stan didn’t come home.

He doesn’t know why he thought he would. He heard his brother storm out and it wasn’t like he tried to stop him. Hell, he locked the bedroom door! But for some crazy reason, he thought Stan would come back. After all – where else could he go? Ford expected to find him passed out on the futon or maybe crashing in Fidds room – honestly, he wouldn’t even have been surprised to find him out on the balcony smoking up a storm. He just…he thought he would be here.

Ford thought he would be back and that they would…talk. Or at least try to talk. Yesterday was unreal. So much happened, so much changed. One second they were kissing and the next…he still can’t believe his parents _know_. He could have denied it. Maybe he _should_ have denied it. But once it was out…Ford just – he let it be. Even though it terrifies him. Even though it embarrasses him. And he knows, rationally, that he shouldn’t be embarrassed. He can’t help the way he is. He can’t help how he feels.

What he’d told Stanley back at the hospital wasn’t a lie. He’s still unsure himself as to what his sexuality is. He can’t label it, can’t box it, it just… _is_. And frankly, it’s not the most important thing to him. No, the most important thing to him is Stanley. And what he’d been doing with Stanley, where he had been going with him. The metamorphosis of their relationship. That’s what he wants to know more about, that’s what he wants to explore.

Instead he’s…here. Wherever here is. His parents. Christ, he runs a hand through his hair and thinks about how he has to talk to them again and soon. He doesn’t even know how to have that conversation. And yes, he’d been angry with Stanley last night – how could he not be? His brother had just outed him to their parents – to their _father_. His mother might be…disappointed, but their dad?

Filbrick Pines is not the kind of man who will view Ford’s alternative lifestyle favorably. The man has a very low threshold for tolerance. Not to mention he’s intimidating. Ford outright refuses to believe he’s _scared_ of him, but he can at least admit that he has a healthy awareness of him. Filbrick is a strong man, a proud man; one not easily impressed who has very firmly held views and beliefs.

And Ford knows the man hasn’t had the easiest life. He’s had to work hard every day to provide for his family as best as he can. He’s trying his best. Ford’s repeated this to himself several times in his life. _He’s trying his best, he’s trying his best._ Not to mention Ford is his child and he feels he should respect him, should do what he can for him. The man is one half of the reason he’s in this world, half the reason he exists. More importantly – he’s half the reason _Stanley_ exists.

It would be a cold, uninhabitable world without his twin. He thanks whatever higher power there is every day for Stanley and since Filbrick helped give him that, he has to thank him, too. Has to love him. Love is hardwired between parents and their offspring, isn’t it? He’s sure he could do some research, find some facts, substantiate all of it and-and make it okay.

As for the…incident with the belt and the scar - well, Stanley just doesn’t understand. Ford was the one who messed up. It was his fault. Stanley thinks it’s his, but Ford knows better. Stan came up with the idea to move the television, but Ford could have told him no. He could have made a better stance for leaving it where it was. And he was the one who lost his grip, wasn’t he? He’s the one who really dropped it, who let it slip, who broke it. He deserved to be punished for that.

Ford has had these thoughts before and he knows he’ll have them again. That moment is always with him. It’s trapped inside, but normally he just pushes it down and ignores it. He doesn’t see any point in drudging it up. His mind will go against his wishes now and then. But when it does, he just forces it down deeper and deeper within himself.

It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter. It’s not important. Mistakes were made, but now it’s okay. It’s golden. He’s fine. Stan’s fine. Their father is…fine. It’s fine. But that doesn’t change the current problem. How is he going to deal with his parents knowing his orientation? How’s he going to deal with Stanley? Especially after the kiss and then just - everything else.

He’d seen Stan’s face when their dad said Ford asked for money. He’d looked so hurt, so betrayed. Ford planned on telling him, but he was looking for the right moment and he didn’t want to do it on their day out. That day had been too good to spoil. Well, up until the point where it’d been spoiled. And life is currently still spoiled. He knows it won’t be right until he addresses things with his brother. Maybe in another lifetime he’d be okay with having unresolved issued between them, to holding on to a grudge, but not in this one.

In this one, he lives with his brother and he needs him by his side. What’s more, he needs to find out where exactly they’re going. If their parents hadn’t interrupted them – what would have happened? Ford thinks of this as he gets ready for school. At least this is something he can control – at least this is something he feels comfortable with. Classes, lectures – the rigmarole of his average day. He goes to one class – each after the other.

He takes notes, he pays attention, he distracts himself with the minutiae of his education. But every now and then he checks his phone. No calls, no texts, nothing. He runs into Fidds during their shared Applications of Quantum Mechanics course and he thinks about blurting everything. Instead he…doesn’t. And Fidds _knows_ something is wrong.

“Y’should know I’mma keep buggin’ you ‘till ya tell me,” Fidds whispers, not looking up from his book as their teacher drones on and on up front. Professor Wells is far enough away that he can’t really pick up on their conversation if they’re quiet enough, so Ford murmurs back, “It’s…complicated.”

“I can handle complicated.”

“I know, I know. It’s just…” Ford trails off with a sigh and he looks down at his notebook to realize with some dismay that he’s stopped taking notes. Instead he’s sketching weird little animals. One of them looks like a cross between a goat and a pig. Gompers. He scratches it out then pinches at the bridge of his nose, “Look – it’s personal.”

“So Stanley, then?” Fidds returns smoothly, one corner of his mouth jerking upwards as if he’s fighting off a smile. Ford decides to bend – if only a little, “You could say that – my parents are in town.”

Fidds attempts to fight off a smile abruptly ends, “No foolin’?”

Ford nods and Fidds lets out the world’s most low volume whistle, “Don’t need to say another word. I take it he and your daddy hit it off like they normally do.”

“It was bad enough when we were growing up. You know after… _after_ ,” Ford intones, knowing Fidds knows exactly what he’s talking about, “That’s when Stan started getting so mad all the time. And he and dad – they fought. Tooth and nail. I can’t tell you how many times Stan slammed our door. Always thought he was going to _break_ the thing. And that was just in _middle_ school. High school was like living in a war zone.”

“If’n I recall correctly – that’s why you asked him to come out here with you, isn’t it?”

“He wouldn’t have survived there,” Ford confirms, “I was worried they would kill one another. At least when mom and I were present they sort of broke apart. Like two boxers in a ring, you know? They took a moment to catch their breath and pull away from one another. I thought maybe with some distance…”

The words die off, but he doesn’t need to elaborate. Fidds _knows_. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, right? Whoever came up with that adage clearly should have done more research. If anything, the distance between Stan and Filbrick merely reinforced the divide between them. It had grown larger and wider, more deadly. And colder it. Lord, was it cold.

Or it had been, until last night. Once the radio silence had been broken, once they’d seen one another again, been in the same space, the ice between them had been lost, melting in the flames of their never ending conflict. Ford had hoped the fire had gone out, but clearly it’s just been banking, waiting for last night and with it – with it Stan unwittingly making him a casualty.

At least one of his secrets was a casualty. He knows he should tell Fidds, but he finds he doesn’t want to. It’s not that he wants to keep it from his friend or doesn’t feel comfortable in confiding in him. It’s simply that it currently feels too difficult to talk about. He _will_ tell him, just not yet. He snorts to himself – why does that sound so familiar? Oh yeah, that’s the same stance he took on telling Stanley that he’d asked their parents for money for his hospital bills. And look how that’d worked out.

But this is different. Fiddleford will understand; he’s a good person that way. He’s forgiving. It’s a trait Ford does his very best to emulate. That and being easy going. Though, honestly, no one is as easy going as Fiddleford McGucket. Stan and Ford once bet him he wouldn’t sleep in a dumpster for one entire night and he did. He slept in a _dumpster_. The whole night. With the _garbage_. Then again, he did win fifty bucks out of the deal. Took Susan to that super fancy steak place downtown.

“…you hear me?”

Ford hums, snapped out of his thoughts by Fidds, “Said, if you need me to referee, just let me know. I may have never met your daddy, but I ain’t about to take no guff from a man who’s treated y’all the way he has, you hear me?”

“Yeah, okay. I hear you,” his words don’t have much feeling to them, coming out as more of a canned response so Ford adds with clear sincerity, “Thanks, Fidds.”

Fidds nods and returns his attention to his school work. Ford does the same and thinks about when he should talk to his friend about everything that happened. Not today. Maybe tomorrow? Surely he’ll have talked to Stan by then. The class ends and the two separate – Fidds off to one of his electives and Ford off to have a lunch break. He checks his phone, hoping for Stan and instead feels his stomach drop.

His father called. He swallows thickly and feels his palms begin to sweat. He draws in a heavy breath and flicks his fingers across the flat screen, goes through the motions to call him back. The phone only gets through one ring before he hears his father’s gruff, “Hello?”

“H-hey, dad. I’m-I’m calling you back?” Ford wishes his voice wouldn’t tremble so much, that he didn’t sound so unsure. Thankfully, his father doesn’t comment on it, “Your mother and I are near your school. Where are you?”

Ford’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull and he feels his heart leap into his throat. He lets out a weird sound and his father growls, “Come on, come on – speak up! Where are you?”

“Oh, um,” Ford looks around and thinks of the best way to give him directions. He mechanically guides him through it, giving him a clear route. He also starts walking, heading to where he knows they’ll most likely be parking. Soon enough (far sooner than he’d like) he catches sight of them coming towards him. His mother is wearing a flowing dress – which is something of a surprise. Normally she sticks to, ah, tighter numbers. But the red polka dot sundress looks nice. In fact she looks almost as sunny as the day outside is. As if last night didn’t happen at all.

His father looks exactly the same. Different suit but same hat, same shades. He charges over to Ford with his arms crossed, “So, this is your school?”

Damn near word for word what he said about their place. Ford feels the world’s most fake smile plaster itself on, “Yup. This is it.”

He immediately starts mentally picking himself apart. Did he just say  'yup’? And why is he smiling like this? He feels like his lips have been stapled to either side of his face. He probably looks grotesque. If his father cares, he doesn’t say it, “You want to show us around or just stand here?”

“Oh! Ah, right! Sure! This way!” Ford offers with false cheer and he starts taking them around the campus. He finds himself in the very odd position of tour guide. He points out the various buildings he goes to, what classes are within and even includes some historical facts about the campus. It’s stuff he vaguely recalls hearing himself back when he did his orientation.

Mrs. Pines occasionally asks questions and seems somewhat engaged. His father only grunts and sometimes waves a hand as if to signal Ford to hurry up. Eventually they find themselves in one of the open garden quads and there’s a tiny coffee stand set up. Finally his father says something, a question directed to his mother, “Thirsty?”

She nods, “I’d love some tea, if they have it.”

Mr. Pines eyes Ford, “You?”

“Um, sure.”

There’s a brief pause before his father stresses, “Well?” and Ford realizes he didn’t tell him what he would want, “Oh! Just, um, a small coffee? Black. Two sugars.”

The mustache on his father’s face bristles slightly at the two sugars request but he nods and stalks off. Ford escorts his mother to a nearby set of tables and chairs. They sit and wait for Mr. Pines to return with their drinks. Once he does, the trio sits and drinks in silence. Ford’s never felt so awkward in his entire life. Everything so…stiff. Formal.

He doesn’t know what to say or do and his hands keep twitching. His extra fingers feel more prominent than usual. He wants to tuck them away – hide his hands in his pockets or behind his back. Instead he grips his coffee cup and keeps his eyes down on the cheap plastic lid. The scar on his back also seems to have a life of its own, which is crazy. He doesn’t feel it often. It’s a _scar_ for heaven’s sake. But right now, in this moment, every soft scrape of his shirt seems to touch it. He can’t seem to stop shifting in his seat.

Which his mother notices, her voice reproving, “Stanford, sweetie, sit still! Honestly.”

“Sorry,” he offers but she just laughs, “You always did have too much energy. I remember you used to make the grocery carts roll off by themselves if I sat you in them. Your little body would just vibrate them away. Stanley had that problem too. But I suppose it’s only be expected – when you were born, the tarot card reading I did that day blantly featured The Knight of Swords – so, it’s only natural you two are so vigorous.”

At this declaration, Ford looks up at his father. But the man is unmoved. He’ll never understand it. Tarot and horoscopes seem like something his father would be vehemently against, but he lets his wife talk of them with no words of reproach. It’s an unsolvable mystery. Somehow, their mother walks above them – spared from Filbrick’s scrutiny.

She also has some sort of mystical power over him, because when she clears her throat it seems to draw something from him. He looks over at her and she arches one eyebrow at him while she succinctly sips her drink. He blusters for a moment before looking at Ford, asking tersely, “How’s your brother?”

“St-Stanley?”

“Who else, ya knucklehead!” Filbrick barks and Mrs. Pines clears her throat again. Filbrick lets out a pained noise then says with strained patience, “Yes, Stanley. How is he?”

“I-I don’t know. He left not long after you did.”

Mrs. Pines worries her lower lip and Mr. Pines pushes up his shades, “Do you know when you’ll see him again?”

The question makes Ford’s whole body tense up. No. No, he _doesn’t_ know and the revelation pains him. He can’t even say the words, so he shakes his head. Filbrick rolls his head about his shoulders before saying, “Well, when you do, tell him-”

Another throat clearing noise.

“- _please_ tell him that I would like to speak with him.”

“Oh,” Ford breathes neutrally, “Okay.”

Mr. Pines nods to himself, clearly feeling he’s said all he needed to say as he gets to his feet. Mrs. Pines and Ford follow suit and while his mother walks away to throw out her empty cup, Filbrick reaches into his suit jacket and withdraws an envelope that he holds out to his son, “Here. This is for you.”

Gingerly Ford takes it and peeks inside to see there’s a check made out to the hospital in the full amount of his bills. He tucks it into his back pocket and forces himself to look at his father, “Thanks. I really appreciate it and-and about last night…”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Filbrick’s voice is stern, his expression more so. Ford feels his shoulders huddle up about his head – as if to protect himself, make himself smaller. His head wobbles up and down on his neck in agreement and Filbrick makes a ticking sound with his tongue, “Tell Stanley I expect to hear from him before we leave.”

“Yes, sir,” the words leave him as a breathless wheeze, his whole body still seized up with anxiety. Mrs. Pines comes back over and she frowns at the sight of him, “What’s the matter, sweetie?”

“Nothing!” Ford yelps out quicker than he should, so he clears his voice and tries again, “Nothing, just…caught a chill.”

“How’s that possible? You’re always wearing one of these!” Mrs. Pines pokes at his dark green beanie, “I’ve hardly seen you without one since you turned fifteen. You must have hundreds of them. A whole rainbow collection.”

Filbrick looks pained at the term ‘rainbow collection’ and Ford’s cheeks feel like they’re burning. Either oblivious or choosing to ignore their discomfort, she continues, “And you’ve always got on one of these hoodies too! I don’t think it’s your destiny to always wear one of these things! You shouldn’t cover yourself up so much! You should let people see how cute you are!”

She takes off his hat and playfully ruffles his hair, making it fluffier than usual. He lets out a whiny ‘Mo-oom’ and snatches the beanie back, shoving it down on his head again. She kisses his cheek before wishing him well. His father just gives him a single nod. They walk off and Ford sits back down, feeling passable.

That interaction was certainly tamer than the previous night’s disaster. Of course, this is because it’s clear that his parents have chosen to embrace the family motto: never mind all that. It’s not a legit motto – not something they have engraved on a family letterhead or something, but it’s sort of an understood code. If something happens that’s too uncomfortable or upsetting they just…pretend like it never happened.

It’s not something he looks his nose down at either – he’s done it. They all have. It’s how they keep the peace, it’s how their fragile family is knit together. Like a mirror that’s been shattered, the pieces haphazardly glued together but you can still see your reflection, so what’s the harm? He wonders if this is how things with Stanley should be handled when he finally catches up with him. No, he knows it can’t be that way.

Because of the kisses. The emotions. The-the pure _feelings_. He doesn’t want to hide from that. He doesn’t want to pretend they don’t exist. If anything, he wants _more_. Can he get more? Is that what Stanley wants? He doesn’t really know for sure. They certainly have a lot to talk about, a lot to work though. It hangs over him – a heavy, heavy weight and he slinks down into his chair, sipping at his coffee again. It’s not a very good blend – they make much better brews at the shop.

Still, it gives him a nice caffeine kick and he sits there, breathing in the nice, warm air when he gets that…feeling. There’s no real word for it. It’s just an instinctual switch inside that flicks on and says: you’re being watched. He sits up and turns, looking around to see if he’s either right or crazy. Turns out he’s right.

Preston Northwest is sitting a few tables away. He’s not looking at Ford now, but Ford’s positive he was looking earlier. Ford…felt it. He felt eyes on him. Preston, for his part, is playing up the part of an unobservant bystander. He’s got one of his textbooks open before him, spiral notebook to one side, pen carelessly scrawling along the paper as if he’s taking notes.

Ford looks at him and thinks about how Preston gave him _flowers_. And how those flowers caused a chain reaction. Part of him thinks he should be mad at Preston, but he isn’t. For one thing, he doesn’t know for sure (not one hundred percent) that it was even Preston who sent them. He told his father he did because it was the first answer that came to his mind that night and the mood had been so oppressive. Second, if he did send them, he could have in no way predicted what would happen.

Preston couldn’t have guessed at what havoc the flowers would cause. Either way, if the flowers came from him, they had been intended as a nice gesture. And while it’s odd to think of ‘Preston’ and ‘nice’ within the same vicinity of one another, it’s clear the two concepts have warmed up to one another. With this in mind, Ford gets to his feet and walks over.

Preston doesn’t look up. If anything, he seems to concentrate even harder on his work than before, pen pressing down almost roughly. Ford takes the empty seat across from him and without missing a beat, Preston mutters, “And just what makes you think this is okay?”

Rolling his eyes, Ford starts to get back up but Preston finally looks at him, letting out a heavy breath, “No, wait. Sorry. It’s…a knee jerk reaction. Sit down,” his words are soft but Ford hasn’t moved to fully retake the chair, so he tosses in a very quiet, “Please.”

Breathing in through his nose deeply, Ford does as request. Preston looks back down at his work and Ford sits there, thinking of the best way to start. Finally he decides the simplest way is best, “I came over to thank you. For…y’know, the whole frat party thing. For stopping Bill and Eight Ball.”

Preston doesn’t respond but Ford doesn’t take this as a sign of discouragement, if anything it compels him to continue, “I really appreciate you speaking up, considering you didn’t have to-”

“The hell I didn’t!” Preston interrupts and he nearly stabs his pen through his notebook, “Despite what you and your sidekicks might think, I am first and foremost a _gentlemen_. I was raised with a set of rules, of higher ethics and standards! The Northwest name is one I carry with pride. My family has an illustrious history, one I won’t see marred! The events that would have taken place that night, had I not intervened, would have been catastrophic!”

“So, you didn’t step in for altruistic reasons, you stepped in for yourself?” Ford asks but the question has no scorn to it. It’s asked honestly and maybe this is what throws Preston off. He sort of…falters. His expression is strange, _open_ , and Ford’s never seen Preston look so…lost. It’s not a bad look on him. Definitely much better than his normal condescending sneer.

Clearly he was expecting Ford to fight with him and, now that Ford hasn’t risen to the bait, he’s unsure where to go. He must find a course, because his face closes up again, mask firmly back in place as he says coolly, “That’s right.”

“Why did you send flowers, then?” Ford asks and Preston avoids his eyes. Instead he looks off to one side, clearly trying to find something in the distance to focus on, “What flowers?”

“When I came home from the hospital there were flowers. Shandra said they were most likely from you. She said you’re a flowers kind of guy,” Ford stresses the last bit and he sees all he needs to. Preston flinches. It’s nearly imperceptible, but he catches it and he smiles, proud of his detective skills, “They were really nice. Stanley would’ve rather you sent money.”

“Oh yeah! Because _that_ looks great!” Preston rejoinders angrily, “For your information, I thought that sending you money would be entirely inappropriate! I felt it implied that I was trying to buy you off, pay you to not speak of what happened at the party! Now, that said - should you require financial assistance due to any-any indignities you suffered, I would be willing to work out some sort of payment plan but-!”

“Preston, it’s fine,” Ford overrides his tirade, “My parents took care of it.”

“Oh,” he deflates, “Uh, well. Yes. Good, good.”

He turns back to his textbook and idly flips a page. Ford looks at him and realizes he really doesn’t know all that much about him. In fact, this is probably the most they’ve ever really talked. Well, the most they’ve talked without Preston saying something unnecessarily cruel. Ford almost feels like it’s sand slipping through an hourglass – any time now, Preston will be an ass.

Instead, Preston asks, “So…were those your parents earlier?”

“Hmm?”

“The-the couple with you – the woman in the sundress, the man with the shades.”

“Yes, that was them.”

Preston looks up again, shifting a little where he sits, “They-they didn’t look like I thought they would.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know…I expected them to look…poorer? More rags and less finely tailored clothing. Haggard. Redneckish? New Jersian.”

“I was unaware ‘New Jersian’ was a look,” Ford supplies and it’s the weirdest thing - he’s…not offended? More amused. Maybe it’s because Preston’s words don’t hold the normal rancor. Instead they’re more…curious and they continue to be so, “And neither of them had any deformities. Considering your extra fingers, I suspected one of them would have something as well. Extra fingers themselves or maybe a vestigial tail. That said; your father’s face and general head shape would fit right in with the statues of Easter Island.”

And this is where everything takes a very interesting turn.

Because Ford laughs. It’s a genuine laugh too. It’s bright and full and it’s clearly not something he planned on doing. It starts off sort of half choked and then grows, becoming warmer and fuller as it continues and Preston looks…pleased. Proud. He looks at Ford and actually _smiles_. It’s a very small smile, but it’s there and it doesn’t leave as Ford’s laughter finally starts to die off, one hand wiping away tears from his eyes, “Oh man! Oh my- _ahahah_! I never noticed before but you’re right! Oh my god! That’s- _aha_!-hilarious. _Ohhhh_!”

Ford breathes out lowly, doing his best to catch his breath and Preston ducks his head, “By the way, you’re welcome.”

“Huh?” Ford offers intelligently and Preston sighs as if burdened, “For the flowers.”

“You're admitting you sent them?”

“Yes, I believe you already deduced that earlier.”

“Just getting conformation.”

“Fine. I sent them. Happy?”

“Pleased as punch,” Ford jokes and Preston still looks...softer. Nicer than usual. Ford looks at his textbook, “What’re you studying?”

“I’m prepping for Mr. West’s accounting exam.”

“You take accounting?”

“Unfortunately,” Preston supplies and Ford waits patiently, curious to see if he’ll continue. Much to his pleasure, he does, “You’re not the only one with a father who carries a…stern disposition.”

“I take it your father’s a statue as well?”

Preston hums in agreement, “I am to take over one wing of our family’s many business enterprises.”

“Which is?”

“Quite nosy, aren’t you?” Preston returns and while his tone has taken on some ice, Ford finds himself feeling bizarrely bold, “I can be.”

He gets an exaggerated huff in return, “Automobiles, if you must know. To be direct – mud flaps.”

Ford’s eyebrows rise, “Mud flaps?”

“Indeed. Just as exciting as it sounds.” Preston’s voice is extraordinarily bitter and Ford is fascinated. He never knew this was what Preston was going to school for. All he knew was that his father was paying for his ticket in, possibly even paying for him to pass. Now here he is, clearly unhappy and clearly with his own paternal problems.

It’s a very risky gamble but Ford asks anyway, “What would you rather do instead?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If you didn’t have to take over the Northwest mud flap dynasty – what would you do?”

Preston hasn’t lifted his gaze from his book and he’s quiet for so long that just as Ford reaches the conclusion that he’s not going to answer he gets a low, “Well…apparently, I’m the flower guy.”

Honestly, this was the last thing Ford expected. He blinks repeatedly, “Flowers?”

The barest of nods, “Botany is a…private passion of mine. Flowers have meanings, a language all their own even, it’s…”

He drops off and it’s obvious he’s uneasy continuing. Ford lets it drop save for one last question, “What about the flowers you sent me?”

“What?!” the question comes out oddly high pitched and Ford shoots him a look, wondering why his voice rose several octaves, “The flowers you sent me – what’s their message? What did each of them mean?”

“ _Nothing_!” If possible, his voice goes even higher. Ford frowns, “But you said-?”

“Confound it all, Pines – nothing! Okay?! I assure you; your flowers had no meaning whatsoever!” Preston proclaims this with such a level of vehemence that Ford holds up his hands in surrender, “Okay, okay – calm down!”

Preston looks so rattled that Ford drops the conversation entirely. Instead he looks at the textbook again, “Do…do you want some help studying?”

Getting no immediate reply, Ford presses on, “I could read you some of the questions? Help you make some note cards?”

“I-I suppose. Yes. That-that would be fine,” Preston says and Ford smiles again. They work together for quite a while, going over the possible questions and answers for the exam. Ford’s surprised to find Preston is smarter than he’s given him credit for. Whether or not he likes accounting is irrelevant. Northwest is clearly prepared, almost always having the correct answer at the ready.

And without his normal snobbish veneer, Preston is…actually kind of charming. And funny. The Easter Island joke apparently isn’t the only one he has and Ford finds himself laughing more than once. It’s the craziest thing but, he can almost swear he catches Preston _blushing_ sometimes. Like he’s happy that Ford’s happy and laughing at him, having a good time with him.

Eventually Ford’s phone alarm beeps, signaling him that his lunch break is reaching its end. He gets to his feet and offers Preston a genuine smile, “I gotta get to my next class but this was…fun?”

“Yes,” Preston whispers, “I thought so too.”

“I’m sure you’ll do well on that exam. And hey, maybe we can do this again sometime?”

“Yes, over dinner – this Thursday?” Preston asks and Ford feels as if someone just socked him square in the nose. Is-is Preston-? Is Preston Northwest-?! Ford’s mouth is flapping and he feels like his eyes are huge. He must look quite a sight because Preston starts chattering on nervously, “Or you know, we don’t have to do it _this_ Thursday. We could just met up again like we did today, study in the library or-!”

“Thursday sounds good.” Ford hears himself say the words but he doesn’t know why he’s saying them. Why is he saying them? But, okay, there’s no way on earth Preston Northwest is asking him out on a date. Preston told him very directly at the party that he does not like him. And now, okay, maybe they’re becoming friendly. Maybe he is starting to like him. But if he’s starting to like him, surely it’s just as friends and Ford wouldn’t mind having more friends so…

“Okay,” Preston lets out the world’s loudest exhale, “Cool. Your number?”

They exchange numbers and go their separate ways. Ford is truly starting to wonder what in the world is going on. Ever since the day out with Stan, it’s like he’s stepped into a whole new world, a different dimension and he doesn’t know how to cope. It’s like he’s endlessly falling and there’s nothing to catch hold of. He looks at his phone and sees that Preston has been added to his contacts list.

What the fuck?

He shakes his head and puts away his phone with the intention of heading to class, heading back to things that make sense. But instead? Instead he finds himself going home. He shouldn’t skip class. It’s absolutely the last thing he should be doing right now. He already missed so much when he was getting better after the party.

Yet somehow his feet are taking him home, drawing him there like a magnet and when he walks through the front door he knows exactly why. Because when he enters their apartment he finds Stanley there – waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Rick Sanchez, Birdperson, and Squanchy are all from 'Rick & Morty'. tags have been updated to reflect their inclusion.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mentions of past child abuse, STRONG sexual content, incest - this is a big one...
> 
> Special thanks to [cheeziswin> and ](http://cheeziswin.tumblr.com/)[stan-o-wars](http://stan-o-wars.tumblr.com/) for reading bits of this chapter in advance to give feedback/edits as well as hold my hand while I freak out over each and every lil’ thing. Also thanks to the many people who pointed out this [twitter> post to me.](https://twitter.com/xxaeou/status/703773284668551168)

Stan isn’t prepared for this.

He only got back a few minutes ago and he’d planned on doing the best he could to prep himself. He knew Ford would be in the middle of classes. It’s why he made sure to have Jimmy drop him off now. He figured he’d go up to the apartment, maybe straighten up some, try to think of what to say. Instead Ford’s just walked through the door, hours earlier than anticipated.

So, Stan says the first thing that comes to mind, “Uh, hey.”

“Hey,” his brother returns quietly. They stare at one another for several beats, then look away, each turning their head in the opposite direction. Ford puts his messenger bag down and rubs at one arm. Stan scratches at the back of his head and draws in a loud, shaky breath. Neither says anything else. At least not for a full five minutes, before Stanley finally cracks, “Um…you wanna know why the big cat was disqualified from the race?”

Ford looks up at him, face puzzled, and Stan just answers; “Because it was a cheetah.”

This earns him a very visible blink and he doesn’t know why but he, well, he doesn’t stop, “What did the ocean say to the shore?”

No response.

“Nothing, it just waved.”

“What are you doing?” Ford asks and Stan rubs one hand down his face, “I don’t know! I don’t know what to say to you, Stanford! Where to begin! I just – I’m-I’m so sorry for yesterday…”

“It’s okay,” Ford whispers but Stan starts vehemently shaking his head, “It’s _not_ okay! Don’t say it’s okay, Ford, when you know – you _know_ – it isn’t! This is the same shit you pull with Pops and I can’t stand it! You have every right to be mad! To hate me! To-!”

“But I don’t!” Ford snaps but Stan’s already worked up, “Okay, maybe you don’t, but you _always_ do this! You back down from fights and I just _know_ it’s because of him! You used to fight with me all the time until that night. Then he hits you, tears your back wide open, and that’s it! Ever since you’ve kowtowed to everybody – Northwest, Pops, even me! You snapped at me at the party ‘cause your guard was down, but if it hadn’t been…”

“You make it sound like I’m incapable of standing up for myself!” Ford breaks in hotly, “I’m-I’m not some wimp!”

“I’m not saying that,” Stan argues but Ford just snorts, “Oh, you’re not? Because that’s sure as hell what it sounds like!”

“I’m not saying you’re a wimp, Stanford! What I’m saying is that it’s okay for you to rip into me when I fuck up! And I fucked up. I outed you to Ma and Pops and I had no right, no right at all to do that!”

“Okay, then – why _did_ you do it, huh?” And Stan freezes, feeling his stomach twist as Ford glares at him, “You want me to fight with you? Fine! Then tell me why you did it! Better yet, tell me why you _think_ you did it!”

“Why I-?” Stan short circuits over this but Ford’s ready, “Or how about I tell you? You did it because of Dad! Maybe I do have a problem with-with confrontations! And yes, it’s completely possible that my psyche was somehow altered due to my skirmish with our father, but you didn’t leave that situation unscathed yourself! You’ve always had a devil may care attitude towards your safety, but its grown worse since then. And your-your wild defense of me! You’re always at the ready to fight off my demons, so how can I be expected to do it when you’re already there and that – oh ho! – _that’s_ when we get into your temper!”

“My temper?”

Ford nods, “Your temper which is verbatim our father’s.”

“Don’t you say that,” Stan’s voice is a deadly hiss, “Don’t you _ever_ compare me to him!”

“How can I not?! You two are peas in a pod!”

“How DARE you!” Stan bellows, “I would never, ever, _EVER_ lay a hand on you!”

“Alright, but you sure as hell lay your hands on everyone else! You hit Preston. I’m sure you hit the guy who tried to-to assault me! You even took a swing at our wall!”

He gestures to the hole near the front door and Stan scowls, “Pshh! That looks great! Think I might even frame it!”

This gets an eye roll but then Ford marches over to his brother, “Let me see your hand.”

Unprepared for this request, Stan merely does as asked, presenting his left hand and Ford picks it up. He looks over it with a frown, “Not this one. The one you used to hit the wall.”

“This is it.”

“Impossible,” Ford murmurs and he turns the hand over this way and that only to see a number and a name scrawled on the open side of Stan’s palm, “Um…who’s Rick?”

Before Stan can answer, Ford eyes squint as he continues to read, “And does he, in fact, have a ‘big dick’?”

“What?” Stan gasps and pulls his hand back. He’d been too tired when he’d crashed in Jimmy’s room to really contemplate Rick’s writing. Then he’d forgotten all about it, his anxiety about seeing Ford overriding everything else. Now he looks down now to see that his palm does, in fact, say: Rick ‘Big Dick’ and the guy’s number.

A strange laugh bursts up out of him at the scratchy writing, “No – it’s–it’s nothing. See, last night I stayed with a friend.”

“Rick?” Ford asks, his voice very…unsettled. Stan hurries on, “No, actually, guy named Jimmy. Worked with him on a job once. Anyway, he took me to meet this friend of his who fixed up my hand and you’d never believe it – he’s also the lead guitarist of ‘The Flesh Curtains’,” he points down and Ford suddenly realizes he’s wearing the band’s shirt, “don’t know if you remember going to that concert when we first came to town, but-!”

“Wait, wait – Rick _Sanchez_?” Ford cuts in again.

“Yeah,” Stan grouses, “I _just_ said that!”

“No, Stan, it’s just-!” Ford laughs, “I _do_ remember him. I remember that show! I really liked the music! So, after the show, I looked them up on the internet and it turned out they had a Tumblr. That’s how I discovered that website in the first place. Rick, he – he writes about some _amazing_ things on his blog! I mean, when it’s legible and not drunken ramblings. I’m talking cutting edged science! Science light year’s beyond,” he trails off, his excitement palpable as he picks up with, “And _he_ fixed your hand?!”

“Um, yes?”

“What did he use?”

“I dunno; some weird sci-fi ray gun he invented?”

“He invented a device that healed your hand this perfectly?!” Ford looks like he’s going to float off the ground. He starts babbling a bunch of science-y, technobabble that Stan can’t keep up with. Basically just random guesses and questions about how Rick could have done this. Stan puts a stop to it, “Look, look – I don’t know how he did it, but he did. And I really appreciate it. I also really appreciate how cool his band is and I really need to make sure I add his number to my phone.”

Stan draws his hand back and starts working the number into his contact’s list. Ford seems to descend from his scientific high, “So, um…you-you didn’t say if he, ah, does have a big, um-?”

“I didn’t see his dick,” Stan assures him, “Not without his lack of tryin’ though. He actually invited me and you both to a sandwich party.”

“Sand…wich-wha-?”

“We’d be the pieces of bread, him the meat. Maybe some other variation therein.”

The color that takes Ford’s face is undeniably attractive. Seeing it makes Stan grin and then Ford grumbles, “It’s you and me. Grammar, Stanley.”

“I’ll ‘grammar, Stanley’, you.” Stan chuckles and he draws Ford under one arm, digging the knuckles of his miraculously cured hand into his brother’s scalp. Ford laughs and lightly struggles and this is nice. This is their rhythm. But while Stan is glad to see it isn’t lost, Ford easily ducks out from underneath his hold. He adjusts the beanie Stan almost knocked off, “Look, while I’m-I’m glad you found a place to stay last night and someone to fix up your hand - and subsequently hit on you - we need to get back to the point.”

“Which is?”

“Your temper,” Ford returns smoothly, “And your issues with our father.”

“ _My_ issues?” Stan snaps, good mood quickly fleeing, “What about _his_ issues! Didn’tja hear the crap he was saying?! As soon as he came through the door, he was tearing us a new one. Rippin’ apart our whole place and lookin’ down his nose at us.”

“That wasn’t what he was doing,” Ford argues then, at Stan’s disbelieving expression, he amends, “Well, it’s not what he meant to do, I’m sure. And today he was-!”

“Today?”

“I saw Mom and Dad today,” Ford explains, “They came by the campus. It…it went really well. Dad gave me the money for the bill. He didn’t want to talk about what you said. Don’t think Mom did either. So, y’know – I think they’ve both decided it never happened. That’s one of the reasons I said it was okay. You might have outed me, but in a way,” he shrugs, “it was for the best? I mean, I would’ve never told them and Dad might’ve asked about it in the future and that’s not a conversation I wanted to have with him. Now they know so they won’t bring it up again. They’ll probably never ask me about my dating life– you did me a favor.”

“Huh, didn’t _feel_ like a favor.” Stan mutters, “You got upset. Cried. Locked me out.”

“I was. I did. I’m sorry.” He returns, “I-I hate this. I don’t want to fight with you. I’d love to avoid all this, step away from it. To ‘never mind all that’. “

“The family credo?” Stan jokes and Ford nods, “If it was anyone else, I would. I would let it drop, but you…I owe you this, Stanley.”

Stan feels his heart warm at the words only for a Ford to blow frost over it, “Dad…he wants to see you.”

He crosses his arms and looks away, feels his blood pressure rising as Ford keeps going, “He told me he wants to talk to you before they leave.”

“Well, he can shit in one hand and want in the other and we’ll see which fills up first.”

“Stanley,” Ford’s voice is reproaching but Stan is firm, “Look – I don’t want to see him, alright?”

“Well, I think you should.”

“Ha – ‘course you do! You’re always on his side.”

“That’s not true! I’m not-!”

“You are,” Stan grumbles, “This is another thing you do that drives me up a wall, Ford! You back people who don’t deserve it. Dad, Bill – it’s like you’re attracted to assholes! I’m surprised you haven’t made an argument for Northwest!”

“Uh, actually…” Ford starts and Stan’s head snaps in his brother’s direction, “No. You gotta be shittin’ me! I was _joking_!”

“Okay, well…I’m not. I actually met up with him after I saw Mom and Dad. I thanked him for the flowers and he was…kinda nice? And surprisingly funny, he made this joke about Dad’s head,” Ford laughs lightly and trails off because Stan looks so aggravated. Instead he clears his throat and picks up his argument from another angle, “Anyway, we-we actually made plans to hang out this Thursday.”

“You made plans. With Preston Northwest?” Stan bites out each word but Ford doesn’t react, “I don’t know – I think maybe we were wrong about him? I mean, yes – he’s been a jerk in the past, but so what? That means we can’t give him a second chance? That he can’t be redeemed? I mean, he did help us at the party and he sent me flowers. He didn’t have to do that.”

“You are unbelievable. Unbelievable! You’re gonna try to make friends with that self-righteous prick?!”

“I-I think he needs them,” Ford counters, “Friends, I mean.”

“Then he can _buy_ them.”

Ford sighs, “Those are _not_ the kind of friends he needs. He needs real, genuine people. When we were talking, I realized we’re pretty similar. We both have…strong willed fathers who expect a lot from us. We share a few teachers and we both have similar philosophies about how best to study and anyway, when he asked me out to dinner, he just seemed so sincere about it that I couldn’t help but say yes.”

“Whoa, hold up! He asked you out to dinner? As in a date?”

“I don’t think it’s a date, per say.”

“Like how our night out wasn’t a date?” Stan mutters, “For someone so smart you sure are a huge dummy! And givin’ Northwest a pass – I still can’t believe that! I get shit from you all the time for all kindas stuff like smokin’ and being suffocatin’, but apparently if I was a mouthy shit like Northwest or a big asshole like Pops I’d be…what? What?”

The question comes out repeatedly as Stan suddenly notices the surprised look on Ford’s face. Ford’s Adam’s apple visible bobs, “Our…our night out was-? It _was_ a date?”

“Oh! Um,” Stan immediately recognizes that he’s talked himself into corner and he feels his cheeks heat, “Well…what-what did _you_ think it was? Did you…did you want it to be a date?”

“Did _you_ want it to be a date?”

Stan blows a loud raspberry at him, “Aw – don’t do that! Don’t throw my question back in my face!”

“Oh, because you didn’t do it first?” Ford teases and Stan rubs at his eyes before riffling his fingers through his long hair. He feels restless as his fingers come across the tiny band keeping his hair up in a ponytail. He tugs the band out and plays with it, trying to distract himself with a mindless activity, “I’m your brother, Ford. Your family.”

“I’m aware.”

“So…us dating, us being involved in-in that way...it has a lot of problems attached to it.”

“True,” Ford confirms softly, “But then…we did kiss.”

Tiny tendrils of desire begin curling their way throughout Stan’s circulatory system at that tone, at the memory, “We did. We kissed a lot.”

“It was…nice.”

“Yeah,” Stan breathes out and there’s a hot pause between them. Stan wants to go over to Ford, want to gather him up in his arms and kiss him right now, but instead he tartly replies, “It was nice – ‘till our folks showed up.”

“I should have told you,” Ford amends and Stan pulls the band taunt between his fingers, “We coulda found a way, Ford. We coulda found a way to pay the bills without you resortin’ to that. Now Pops probably feels like we owe him.”

“We do,” his brother admits, “But for more than just that. Which is why, again, I think you should go see him.”

“Like hell I will.”

“Stanley…”

But he stands his ground, “Look, a few minutes ago you were scolding me on my temper– well, seeing that man’ll only make it worse. Unlike you, I don’t freeze up like a statue when I see ‘im.”

“I-I don’t-!”

“Oh please,” Stan pulls the band as tautly as possible before releasing it. The tiny circle of rubber goes flying across the room as he groans, “You’re terrified of him.”

“That’s NOT true!” Ford denies this as strongly as he can, but Stan isn’t buying it, “Sixer – you damn near shake in yer boots every time you see ‘im! And I can’t blame you – he hit you. I was there, remember? I could hear it! Do you have any idea how that was for me? He locked me in our room and all I could hear was the awful sound of that belt whizzing through the air, it strikin’ your skin, you tryin’ not to cry out.”

“But I deserved it! I deserved it just like all the other-!” Ford stops. He stops. He stops cold. And just when Stanley thought they were getting somewhere– it all goes to shit again.

 

+

 

Stan’s eyes are wide. They grow big. Bigger. Ford holds his hands up and he starts tumbling all over himself, “Now, now Stanley-! Stanley, just wait a minute…”

“What ‘other’?”

Stan’s voice doesn’t even _sound_ like Stan’s voice. It’s hollowed out yet full of fury – like a howling wind before a big storm. Ford feels his knees shake and his breathing is loud in his ears. It _echoes_. Stan continues in that same voice, “What ‘all’? You were gonna say ‘all the other times’? Weren’t you?”

“Stanley…”

“There was only _once_ ,” the voice is making it hard for Ford to stand and he wants to take it all back. He wants to turn back time; because it’s not something he’s ever said, ever thought about. He’s pushed all that away from him, buried it deep down inside. Yet here he’s just slipped up and slipped up big time. Stan’s eyes are dark ice chips, “Tell me there was only the _once_ , Ford. That one time. That one and only…”

“It…it was the…first,” Ford hears the words but he can’t believe he’s saying them. He swore he would never say them. Speaking about it out loud made in _real_ , “But it was the worst too. You have to believe me, Stanley! It was never that bad again. It wasn’t! It was just…sometimes I-I have a smart mouth, you know? And it’s my fault – when I make mistakes. I have to fix them. I have to work extra hard. I know it can’t be easy to have a son that’s-that’s not normal. So I have to do what I can to make up for it and since I’m so smart I should, I should use that, y’know? To give back and to help and to-to-”

“I’m going to kill him,” the words are said with such serious intent that Ford feels panic leap up inside him like a wild animal. It throttles his throat and he physically throws himself at Stanley. Hugs him tightly, hugs him close and it’s like trying to embrace solid stone, “Please! No! Don’t! Don’t do anything stupid! It was years and years ago and he-it-it stopped! It _stopped_!”

“WHEN?!” Stan untangles them, takes Ford’s arms in his hands and squeezes, “When did it stop?!”

“Six-sixteen! When we, when I turn-turned-!”

Stan releases him, hands going to either side of his head to clutch fistfuls of his hair, “You’re standing here telling me that for five _fuckin’_ years he was laying his hands on you and I didn’t know about it?! You didn’t _tell_ me?!”

“It didn’t happen often!” Ford argues, “And they were-they were _accidents_! They were all accidents! I told you! I-I made mistakes and I paid for them. Parents punish their kids – it happens! It’s expected! And there weren’t marks like last time and you were already so angry. I didn’t want him to-to do to you what he-stop! _STOP_!”

This comes out as a choked shout as Ford puts his hands on Stan’s broad chest and tries to push him back. Push him back because Stan’s started moving like he’s going to go, like he’s going to leave and go find their father. Ford can’t have that. He can’t lose Stanley. He can’t. He tries again, “Look, look, I told you – it’s no big deal!”

“It IS a big deal!” Stan growls and he bats Ford’s hands away, “Stop defending him! Why do you do that?! Why do you defend him?!”

 “He’s our father,” Ford counters, “I won’t have you-!”

“You won’t have _me_?!” Stan cries, “For fuck’s sake are you actually worried about _me_ hurting _him_?!”

“No! I’m worried about _him_ hurting _you_! I couldn’t stand it if you got hurt, Stanley! I just couldn’t-I couldn’t _live_!” he stresses the word, tries to get across how he _wouldn’t_ live. How if Stanley was hurt or gone that it would be the end of him as well. He will not live without Stanley. He will _not_. He doesn’t think about their future much, but he knows – when that day comes, if that day ever comes, where god forbid, Stanley passes on before him, Ford will go minutes after. Because wherever they go, they go together.

This in mind, he continues, “And you can’t stand there and tell me you haven’t ever kept any secrets from me!”

“What? Like the fact I let Jimmy fuck me? That secret is nowhere near on the same level as yours!”

“You,” Ford swallows, “You’ve…had-had sex with…a-a man? The…man you stayed with last night?”

Some of the anger leaks out of Stan at the tone of Ford’s voice. He doesn’t know why he chose this particular secret to tell him. Probably because he’d seen Jimmy so recently - it was the first thing that leapt to his mind. But he recognizes that the way he’s divulged this information isn’t very tactful. So, Stan draws in a loud breath to calm himself a bit before continuing, “Yeah. But you gotta believe me, Ford. That was a onetime deal and it was a long time ago. It’s the only thing I’ve ever kept from you.”

“Is it?” Ford asks but the question isn’t accusatory. It’s quiet and at first Stan doesn’t get it, so Ford gently nudges him, “What about…me? How-how you might feel about me?”

His twin freezes and Ford’s heart feels like it’s taking a roundabout trip in his body. He feels its pulsing beat acutely in the strangest spots. His throat, his cheeks, his chest – it seems to rest right on the tip of his tongue as he murmurs, “You said…the other night was a date. And we kissed and…and all this started not long after it was pointed out how close we are.”

“You kissed me back,” Stan rumbles, “How do you feel about me?”

“Thought we agreed not to throw our questions back at one another?”

This earns him a husky chuckle, one that makes the tiny hairs on his body stand on end. But not in a bad way, no, this is an electrifyingly good way. Slowly Ford’s realizes his breathing has gotten off track. He’s close to panting now, which makes no sense. They haven’t even done anything. It’s hard to calculate how they’ve gotten to this change of mood.

The air is charged now, but with an energy completely different from what it carried before. Before it was anger and dread. Now? Now it seems much more…earthy. Primal. The ice has melted from Stan’s eyes, but not into the normal warm hues he ordinarily carries. In its place are hot and hungry sparks, as he reaches out and cups Ford’s face with one hand, brushes his thumb along the curve of his cheekbone. Ford’s eyes flutter shut and he trembles lightly as Stan’s warm breath brushes over his skin, “You want to know how I feel about you?”

“Y-yes,” Ford

“How about I show you what would’ve happened if we hadn’t of been interrupted?”

Somehow Ford finds his back against the wall near their bedroom door. He has no idea how he got here, but he’s pretty sure Stan directed him this way. His eyes open, just glazed slits to see that his brother is…close. He’s still stroking the pad of his thumb along Ford’s cheek and a strange sound bubbles up out of Ford’s throat – a needy whimper. Stan’s free hand reaches down and runs along Ford’s left leg, urges it up to wrap around his waist, to draw him in closer. Their hips come flush together as he breathes against Ford’s lips, “Think we were right ‘bout here…”

Stan’s mouth captures Ford’s, slick tongue parting his lips easily, sliding inside so smoothly. Ford makes the needy sound again, his arms rising up to wrap around Stan’s neck, pulling him closer as he kisses him back. The kiss is so gentle yet so exhilarating. Ford feels as if every nerve ending he possesses has caught flame, the fire twisting and winding its way throughout his whole body. He’s going to burn. He’s going to melt away under this heat into nothing and Stan’s hand leaves his face, finds his other leg and urges it up as well and yet again he’s wrapped around Stanley.

Once more Stanley has him shoved against a hard surface, their bodies rocking against one another. Ford can hear himself between the kisses and it’s…sort of mortifying. Mainly because he just – he sounds so goddamn _desperate_. Every little sigh, every injured little moan – they seem unstoppable as his fingers bury themselves deep in Stan’s luxurious hair. He tugs, not altogether gently, but Stan just grunts.

And Ford…god, he can feel _all_ of Stanley. Not just the hair beneath his fingertips – oh no. There’s Stan’s mouth, his chest, and what Ford is pretty damn sure is Stan’s erection. The flies of their pants are both strained, crudely rubbing against one another and the friction is unbearable. Especially when Stan is already thrusting up against him, as if he wants to fuck Ford through several sets of clothing, as if he actually _can_.

This leads Ford to thinking about the actual idea of sex. Sex with Stanley and the mere thought is driving him out of his mind. The slow sensuality is already dissolving, becoming faster, wilder – a hurricane of human needs as Ford answers his thrusts, forcibly pulling his mouth away from their kissing to cry out his twin’s name.

But he can’t say more. He can’t form the words to ask for what he wants. Of course, this is when their connection truly kicks in. Because Stanley reads his mind and pulls him away from the wall. Ford is more than ready to be thrown back on their kitchen table only to find (with some surprise) that Stan’s bodily carting him into their bedroom.

Stan takes Ford to their bed and deposits him on it, giving him a quick kiss before growling, “Just ‘a sec…”

He pulls away from Ford and Ford would be totally bereft if he didn’t see Stan go to their door, shut and lock it, before turning to look at him with glowing eyes, “No more interruptions.”

The weirdest noise leaves Ford and he’s pretty sure (much to his horror) that it’s some kind of giddy giggle. But he doesn’t have long to contemplate it, because Stan is back over top of him, “And don’t think this is me givin’ you a pass on talkin’ about what Pops did to you. Because I do still want to talk about that, Stanford.”

A frown takes Ford’s face at the words, the mood sort of dropping away from him. But only momentarily, because Stan nuzzles into his left side, kissing his cheek and the tip of one earlobe as he whispers, “But I don’t want to pressure you. You kept it a secret for this long, I’m sure you had a helluva good reason as to why. So, I can wait – least for a little while. We’ll put a pin in it, come back to it – but for now? For now, I’ll just admit I’m a selfish son of a bitch who can’t wait any longer. Been dreamin’ ‘bout this for far too long.”

“Dreaming…about…me…really?” Each word leaves Ford slowly as Stan’s broad tongue licks a languid path from beneath his ear down the length of his neck and to the top of his left shoulder. He’s wearing his usual extra layers – button up white shirt with a brown sweater over top, then a yellow cardigan over that. But it’s all bunched up now, messy as Stan tugs material this way and that to get to his skin, to work tenderly over it with his hands and mouth.

Stan gently eases Ford up, just enough to strip away his layers and even though Ford’s hands are shaking, he helps. He watches his cardigan disappear, followed by his sweater and he goes for the buttons of his shirt only for Stan to bat his hands away. Stan takes his time, unhooking each button with deliberate precision, “Hold on…let me savor this.”

“Savor...dream,” Ford repeats the words, puzzled, “You couldn’t have-?”

“I did,” Stan purrs and he stops unbuttoning even though he’s not done yet. No, instead he shoves both hands up under the material, stretching it tight as he brushes his open palms along Ford’s naked chest, “I have. I always will. But this…it’s so much better than I ever thought it would be. You feel incredible.”

Ford hates that his skin is flushing – it looks so bright against the crisp, snow white linen of his shirt. He swears he can see a pink glow bouncing off of it. But it only seems to encourage Stanley, who starts nipping at Ford’s neck again, hands still petting him. His fingertips find the very tips of Ford’s nipples and oh yes, hello – those are _very_ pointed right now, aren’t they? Pointed and sensitive and choked cries leave him as Stan tugs at both, thumbs and forefingers working them – sensually twisting and pulling without mercy and it feels _unspeakably_ good. So much so that his hips stutter up, grind against Stan, who’s forcefully pushing him down.

Stan’s mouth finds his again, kisses him and Ford can’t breathe. He doesn’t want to breathe. He’d rather drink in every single sensation washing over him. Stan’s tongue melding with his, Stan’s hands on his chest, Stan’s fingers on his nipples, Stan’s hips rocking down against his own.  He wraps his legs around Stan, digs his heels into his brother’s ass and pushes down as hard as he can because he needs _more_.

His lustful demands are driving him insane. He can’t hold coherent thoughts – they’re like butterflies fluttering away from him, brushing past the very tips of his fingers – uncatchable. All there is, is the hot, oppressive heat – the needs and desires. The carnality of existence and he doesn’t care how he looks as he tries to essentially encourage Stanley to hump him through their clothes because he just-he _needs_.

It’s like a sickness – an overwhelming disease and the only cure is for Stanley to hurry up, but Stan just laughs and draws his lips away, draws himself away, unswayed as he murmurs, “Told you…don’t rush me.”

“ _Stanley_!” Ford’s positive he’s never heard his brother’s name leave him before in such an impatient whine. And Stan seems to be eating it up, laughing again, hands still caressing Ford beneath the material of his shirt, hips still just…lightly moving, like dancing but much more lewdly, certainly more arousingly. In fact, Ford’s not sure – but he’s starting to think it might be possible to die from how hard his erection is.

Apparently all the blood in his body has flowed into this appendage, because he can’t really feel anything else. He knows the blood from his heart is there, because it’s throbbing with it. A steady, thick pulse and it almost _hurts_. He’s so full and stiff - his cock ridged, his balls drawn up tight. It _aches_. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if he heard the material of his pants rip, the force behind them unrelenting and Stan seems to be suffering from the same ailment, but handling it so casually. How is this even possible?! Hasn’t Stanley been enamored with Ford for a long time? How can he not be impatient too? Ford doesn’t understand it and he just closes his eyes tightly, tosses his head from side to side on the pillow beneath him and lets out a long, low wail. It’s a purely animalistic sound but it has to be released because he’s so full of want and it’s not being slackened in the slightest.

“Fuck,” Stan groans, “You…you really want this, don’t you?”

He kisses him again, rubs their foreheads against one another and Ford realizes their both damp, sweat having beaded up between them even though they’ve done nothing more than kiss and rub salaciously against one another. Ford pants, “God, yes! Stanley, please…”

“You’re so pretty when you beg,” Stan huffs out and he looks almost guilty saying that. Almost. Almost because he still doesn’t give Ford what he wants. No, instead he eases his hands out from underneath Ford’s shirt again. He takes Ford’s beanie off and tosses it to one side, ruffling Ford’s hair before he draws him into another breath-stealing kiss. This goes on for a little while longer, the kissing, and Ford’s hands go to Stan’s back, clutching at the red plaid material of his over shirt and Stan pulls back. Stan eases off that shirt then easily draws the Flesh Curtains’ band shirt up and over his head.

He’s fully topless now and still – still sort of riding Ford. Ford’s hands fly to Stan’s chest and his arms and they are just as hairy as Stan told him on the construction site. Ford loves it. The hair is dense and springy under his hands and he weaves his fingers through it before trailing them down to his belly. Stan’s in better shape than Ford, but he’s not necessarily a body builder or anything. There are muscles, to be sure, but there’s also a fine layer of thick softness. Not exactly fat, but just…flesh. Soft and giving and Ford loves this, too.

He loves all of Stan’s body and he doesn’t understand why this doesn’t feel all that odd. Stanley’s his twin brother – surely he should feel some misgivings about this moment. He should feel some awkwardness instead of this unrelenting excitement. But that’s what he feels – excited. Excited and eager, not at all afraid. If anything this situation – the newness of it – is thrilling. It’s like uncovering a new kind of science, like charting the unknown. But honestly the best part of it all, is that this _is_ known. This isn’t new.

It’s more like a secret. Earlier they had both unveiled secrets to one another, but none of them is like this secret. This secret is good for both of them, because it _is_ just for both of them. It’s a secret that’s been buried beneath their longstanding relationship and it’s just now coming to light as they uncover it together. They’re exploring it with one another and that makes it feel so wonderful, so right.

Stan finally undoes the last of Ford’s buttons and peels off his shirt. It joins the other discarded clothes which, frankly, aren’t that far from them. The bed itself is still as messy as it was this morning. Rumpled sheets and balls of clothing occasionally being nudged this way and that as they fool around. Ford finds it strangely comforting – the hominess of their surroundings. This is their room, their bed – it always has been.

But its status is being elevated as they do this with one another.  Rather than just being a place where they sleep and occasionally hang out, it’s becoming a sanctuary for this recent activity. It’s also always going to carry a special fondness for Ford, holding something of a legendary status because this will now be the first place where he’s ever done anything remotely sexual with another human being. The fact that the person in question is Stanley makes it that much better; especially since Stan’s earlier wishes to take things slowly are finally (thankfully) starting to abate.

Stan’s breathing’s taken on a heavier tack now as he goes for Ford’s pants. There is a lot of fumbling on both their parts, but soon enough Ford’s pants, boxer briefs, socks, and shoes are flung away and Ford is…exposed. He’s entirely bare save for his glasses, which are fogging slightly from all the action. This is, of course, when it finally occurs to Ford that he’s completely naked.

Naked and in front of Stanley and Stanley can see _everything_. See how his pale-as-milk skin is bright red; see all his freckles and weird moles, his nearly hairless chest and his bony ribs and his dick. Fuck! His dick is just _bobbing_ there - his sack full, wild thatches of dark, curling pubic hair surrounding it and oh no, oh no, oh no – his body is – it’s – it’s so _gross_. Ford immediately flops back on the pillows and closes his eyes tight, his hands ducking up beneath his glasses to cover his face. 

Stan chuckles and taps two fingers to one of his elbows, “What’cha doin there, Poindexter?”

“Hiding,” Ford’s voice comes out muffled from between his hands.

“Can I ask why?”

“It’s ‘may I ask why’?” Ford retorts, not uncovering his face and Stan harrumphs before gingerly nipping at the same elbow with his teeth. Ford lets out a little yelp and his hands fall away. His brother gives him a shit-eating grin, clearly satisfied, “That’s better. I can see you again. Or is it ‘may’?”

“You know it’s not.”

“Yet you corrected me the first time. Now, fess up – why’re you hiding?”

“Um, because of my body?” Ford admits shyly, unable to meet Stan’s gaze, “I’m not like you. You’re the tanned Manly Mannington type! I can see how you’ve, um, done this before. Makes sense people’d _want_ to see you naked. Want to have you, but me? I’m, y’know…”

He waves a hand down his body and he plans on bringing it back up to cover his eyes again only for Stan to snatch it, kiss the side of it, “Don’t know what the hell yer talkin’ about, Sixer. I’ve been imagin’ this for a long time and I gotta say; you look even better than I imagined.”

Ford pulls the other hand away and risks looking at him, “Really?”

The question gets a nod but Stan’s really turned his attention to the hand he’s caught. He’s licking Ford’s palm now, kissing it before going to kiss the tip of each finger and then licking them. Ford gasps and giggles at the sensations because they tickle but then it grows heated as Stan starts earnestly sucking on each finger, then opening his mouth wider, taking more than one. He takes hold of Ford’s hand and encourages him to move it and it’s terribly reminiscent of other sexual acts. Ford’s long fingers disappearing in and out of the hot cavern of Stanley’s mouth.

A groan is drawn from deep within Ford as he watches, as he does as Stan wants and when Stan eventually breaks away he lightly kisses Ford once before sweeping his hands down his body, “You’re all clean lines and peach cream skin.”

“S-song writer’s block broken?” Ford chokes out, embarrassed at the idea that such lyrical words could be about him, but also wildly touched by the idea. Stan beams, “Actually, now that you mention it…I _could_ write a whole number about how damnably attractive your body is.”

He moves down the length of Ford’s body, kissing his neck, “ _Like marking up the thick cords of your neck, tracing your collarbones with my tongue,_ ” he performs the actions as he quietly sings them under his breath and Ford lets out a shaky breath, trembling as he continues, “ _Lickin’ up the soft rosy tips of your perfect lil’ nips…_ ”

Stan’s tongue rolls over one nipple, then the other before moving in a silky, wet line down the center of Ford’s belly, “ _Gonna make you come undone, even as I have my fun. Ducking in and out, gonna make you shout…_ ”

And Ford does let out an aborted shout as Stan’s tongue goes in and out of his bellybutton. It’s a silly sensation – even more ticklish than what he did before with his fingers, and Ford can’t help but let out a wavering laugh. But Stan’s not done, still singing, “ _Taste those perfect little dips, right near your hips_ …”

His mouth attacks the plains and valleys of Ford’s hipbones. Ford clutches at the sheets beneath him, feels his fingers fill with the soft cotton material and he tugs at it, trying to find purchase, his whole body shaking because Stanley is so _close_. So close to the part of him that begs for Stan’s attention the most. But Stan foregoes it, much to Ford’s dismay.

Instead he draws back and shifts farther down, gently running his hands over the tops of Ford’s feet and Ford bites his bottom lip, sure that he’s now fully red because his _feet_. Sometimes he forgets that his deformity extends past just his hands. He sees his hands all the time – it causes him to forget all about his mutant feet.

Six toes on each foot. Christ. What exactly did his parents _do_ to upset the power that be? It must’ve been something pretty bad in order for them to be afflict with a child that has so many extra body parts. Six fingers, six toes – why not six eyes? Just make him the full freak package? But Stan doesn’t balk at Ford’s extra toes. No, instead his fingers play with each of them, rubbing and rolling them and it makes Ford’s fingers break away from the sheets, makes him laugh again and this is so unexpected.

To think that this would be…fun. Lighthearted. Yet right on that delirious edge of heady bliss. Of wanton arousal. Which is what Stan switches back to, as he parts Ford’s legs and raises them, carefully perching one ankle over each shoulder. The full brunt of his palms start rubbing up and down the expanse of Ford’s thick, inner thighs. He clutches and massages and Ford’s fingers go scrambling right back into the safety of the sheets, grasping the material again, knuckles turning white.

His head tips back and he lets out an eager noise because he needs _more_. Stan’s just teasing the hell out of him as resumes his song, “ _Thighs around my waist, gotta get a taste, sink my teeth right in, ready for sin_ …”

Stan’s teeth find his right thigh and dig in. He’s _not_ gentle. It’s _perfect_. Ford’s hips jut upwards in response, the skin under Stan’s mouth burning and it’s sharp, right on that razor’s edge of pleasure pain. The wail that leaves Ford is terribly audible. It rebounds off the room’s walls, comes back to his ears and he’s slightly chagrined by it but not for long. He doesn’t have long to think about it, because Stan turns his attentions to his other thigh and does the exact same thing.

He alternates between the two, sucking and biting and Ford’s positive he’s going to have marks. Stan is _marking_ him. Marking him right on his inner thighs where the skin is so supple, so sensitive. Later, long after this is over, whenever his thighs rub together, he’ll think of this – think of Stan’s mouth on him, think of how loud his own breath was in his ears, think of how fucking ready he was for Stan to move on to the main course.

He can look down through the slit of his eyes to see his dick; see the spongy head carefully brushing just under his bellybutton. Swollen and cherry red, curled up and occasionally quivering and it’s…leaking. He can see a trail of clear liquid beading near the very tip, a small trail rolling down and the sight is almost more than he can take. God, when Stanley finally gets to him, it’s not going to take long at all, is it?

Ford realizes he should really try to calm down. He doesn’t want this to be over too quickly. That would be beyond humiliating. He tries to work his mind into thinking of something unsexy, something that will root him down and make him less likely to pop off immediately, but Stan’s attentions are clearly moving towards where Ford’s wanted them for so long.

Stan’s eyes dance over Ford’s erection and his voice is a husky overture, “ _What’s this I see? Could it be for me? That pulsing prick – so full and thick – gonna draw it all in, hungry suckin’ and then I’m ready for sin…_ ”

And true to his words, Stanley sucks him in deep. He doesn’t even lick at the tip of Ford’s cock first, oh no. He draws the _entire_ length into his mouth and moans. It’s a deep, reverberating moan – like he’s been dying for this, like it’s the first cool glass of water he’s had since crossing a blazing hot desert, like it’s balm on a fresh burn and Ford damn near _screams_.

There’s no way on earth the neighbors didn’t hear. Hell, people _outside_ probably hear him. It’s such a loud, ecstatic roar because Ford’s _wanted_ this, because he can feel the moan Stan released along his whole shaft. Because the last words Stan sang were so goddamn _filthy_. And then Stan pulls his head up, sinks back down, then back up again and while his head bobs up and down, while his mouth dances along Ford’s cock his hands reach out. His hands find Ford’s fingers (fingers more closely resembling claws at this point) and he somehow unhooks them from the sheets, forces them to instead thread through Stan’s long curls and he’s ( _oh god, oh Jesus, oh fuck_ ) he’s _encouraging_ Ford to direct his head.

He’s encouraging Ford to just –just grab his hair and _fuck_ his mouth.

And that’s it.

That’s the break point.

Ford is gone. He’s lost. A sea of madness sweeps down on him, wraps him up, and catapults him far away as he roughly grips Stan’s hair and starts fucking his face with unabashed enthusiasm. He watches his long, plentiful length disappear in and out of Stan’s mouth and Stan doesn’t choke, doesn’t look upset. No, he just looks – he looks so goddamn _happy_.

Happy and turned on and the orgasm that rips through Ford nearly eviscerates him. He’s never cum this hard. Never cum this fast. It’s like a bullet of pure pleasure is ricocheting throughout him and finally Stan draws off, does choke because ( _shit, shit, shit_!) apparently Ford’s body has _a lot_ to offer. His cock just keeps…spurting. More and more bouts of cum shoot out and it’s so wet and obscene – hot ropes that seem almost endless and some of it coats Stan’s face, his chest and Ford whimpers as he comes down, as the high starts to leave his limbs because this is…it’s sort of embarrassing, right? No one should – should do what he just did. It was premature and there was a, um, a lot of – ah…

His mind unhelpfully supplies the very scientific term of ‘ejaculate’ and it helps to draw him even further downwards. Not into a joyful afterglow like he would like, but more of an abashed plateau. He opens his mouth to apologize, to mumble out how he didn’t mean to be so forceful and quick and, uh, messy, when Stan shocks him by getting to his feet.

For a moment Ford’s positive Stan’s going to leave, that he’s disgusted, and his heart sinks only to be uplifted as Stan starts cursing under his breath and begins struggling with his pants like mad. He’s tugging at them hard, as if he can grow talons and just rip them off and soon enough he’s naked and – oh…wow.

Stan’s cock is…impressive. Its girth, the very visible veins around it, its dusky hue and his balls are also drawn up tight, also clearly full and ready to give. Stan is breathing like he’s run a marathon and he searches around the room, tossing various bits and bobs everywhere. Clothing and magazines go flying and Ford has no idea what on earth he is looking for until he lets out a pleased grunt and returns with a bottle of lube.

Ford has no idea where that came from or that they even had it. He does not care. Especially not when Stan starts coating himself with it – stroking his own prestigious length and cupping his heavy sack, giving it the lightest of squeezes and a weak mewl leaves Ford because, _fuck_ , that’s _hot_. And his own, already spent dick twitches as if in agreement. He’s not sure but…he thinks he might actually be getting hard again.

Is that even scientifically possible? Ford really hasn’t done that much research into the field of sexuality, but maybe he should give it a go, because it seems like he has a lot to learn and then Stan’s coating him, getting his already moist body even more slick, even more slippery and he….oh lord, he’s carefully rubbing their most intimate parts against one another.

It’s a slow, languorous motion – their lengths brushing along one another, the tender skin of their sacks meeting and Stan leans over him, arms on either side of his head and he captures Ford’s mouth. The kiss is wonderfully dirty - Ford can taste himself in Stan’s mouth. A musky, sour sweet taste and just the faintest trace of smoke, of nicotine, and it should _not_ be so fucking thrilling.

But it is.

Stan tastes so good. Ford tastes so good in his mouth and even the effects of cigarettes Stan most certainly should _not_ be smoking taste good. And Stan’s tongue is a tricky thing, tangling with Ford’s tongue, tracing his lips and just…sort of flicking in and out of his mouth. Mimicking the act of sex and then one of Stan’s big, strong hands wraps around his length and Ford’s, melds them together and strokes. It strokes and stokes – firmly pumping both of them as his mouth drops open, as his lips just wetly brush along Ford’s own open mouth as he lets out a cacophony of harsh, fervent noises.

He keens, Ford’s name escaping him in a repeated, gravelly litany and Ford just takes both of his hands and grips Stan’s ass tight, digs his fingers into the plush flesh and surges upwards into the motion and Stan bellows, cumming just as quickly and harshly as Ford did. Ford can feel jets of heated spunk paint him and he closes his eyes, shivers because it’s what he wanted, what he needed.

Stan collapses against him and it’s a heavy weight. A sweaty, heavy, wondrous weight. Stan’s ragged breathing is ridiculously loud, especially next to Ford’s more tamed pants. Stan moves sluggishly as he rises slightly, takes hold of Ford’s cardigan and starts wiping himself clean, starts wiping Ford clean and Ford, recognizing his own clothing, wrinkles his nose, croaking out, “Hey! That’s mine!”

“Well…’s covered in our jizz now.” Stan chuckles and Ford lets out a little grumpy hum. Stan just keeps chuckling and Ford feels himself getting manhandled about until Stan’s snuggled up against his back. They’re back to spooning again – their normal roles in place – Stan as the big spoon, Ford as the little one, but this is the first time they’ve done the position like this. This is the first time they’ve done the position since what just happened.

What just happened…

My god…

“Everything is different now.” Ford whispers to himself, eyes a little wide even as Stan cuddles him close. He buries his face into Ford’s neck and Ford can feel him smile against his skin and Ford…Ford smiles too.

Even if…

Even if.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder warning for strong sexual content and references to past child abuse - the abuse a bit more detailed this time.

Stan’s been on one hell of a whirlwind lately.

But it’s all been worth it, because it’s led to this. This – Ford in his arms. Ford and him together. He never thought – in a million years, that this would _actually_ happen and now here he is, just basking in it. He’s still catching his breath, still lost in the heady afterglow of a good sexual encounter and Ford is curled up against him and it’s – it’s just heaven.

He buries his face into Ford’s hair, breathes him in and smiles. He didn’t even know it was possible to feel this happy. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s _ever_ been this happy. He snuggles against his brother’s back, completely naked and resplendent. He could stay this way forever. He has his arms wrapped around Ford and his twin is casually petting them, clearly just as content.

And Stan’s just – he’s so full of affection. He can’t help himself. He feels so joyful and cuddly that he kisses the back of Ford’s neck, the top of his spine, then a little farther down the curve of his back when he sees it. The scar. It stands out – a discolored patch against the rest of Ford’s skin – dark and ominous. It has a strange slant to it and it’s about six inches across. Some of the skin looks papery and Stan licks his lips as he unwraps his arms from around Ford.

He reaches out and gently brushes his fingers across it. Ford stiffens, but doesn’t say anything. Stan draws his hand away and shifts around just enough to place one kiss there before tugging Ford close again. He buries his face back into Ford’s hair and closes his eyes. Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_! It was the first. That’s what Ford said. That time their father hit Ford…it was only the _first_ time.

For years, Stan thought it was the _only_ time. Just that once. Just when they were eleven years old and the old bastard was drunk to the gills. And now he knows the truth. How could he have not known before now? Stan searches his memory, tries his best to come up with other times it might’ve happened, tries to dig up old signs or clues, but nothing comes to him. Not a goddamn thing.

He had no idea. Shit! He’s the worst brother on the face of the fucking earth! The worst _twin_ on the face of the fucking earth! Obviously they don’t have much of a ‘mystical’ twin connection if he couldn’t pick up on the fact that Ford was getting abused. Hell, they don’t even apparently have a good _sibling_ relationship if he never picked up on it.

Is that why today was so easy? Is that how he was able to fall in love with him in the first place? What kind of family are they? Father hits son, brothers fall in love – Stan squeezes his eyes shut tighter, strengthens his hold on Ford. He doesn’t want to think about this. Not any of it. He especially doesn’t want to think about what Ford must’ve gone through. Eleven to sixteen. Jesus Christ. And lord only knows how many _times_ Pops put his hands on him.

Ford said the belt was the worst time, but Stan gets the sense he’s lying. Funny to pick up on that now, after everything else he revealed. Jesus, how could Stan not _know_? But then, Ford never knew Stan had less than brotherly feelings for him. Still, this is something far worse! For all Stan knows, Pops might’ve gotten damn near close to killing Ford and he would’ve never known.

And as much as it turns his stomach, he wants to know. He wants to know about every single time his father dared strike out at Ford. He wants to know what so-called ‘justification’ he had for each attack. He wants to know if Ford has more hidden scars, if Ford was ever left bleeding or crying or alone and god, _god_ – he was _alone_. Why didn’t he tell Stanley? Why? Why didn’t he confide in him? Come to him? Stan would’ve protected him! Stan would’ve done anything! He would’ve…

“I’m sticky.”

The words snap Stan out of his thoughts and his grip slackens, eyes popping open in surprise, “Hmm?”

“I’m sticky,” Ford repeats and Stan can almost see the grimace on his face, “We should, ah, clean up.”

He reaches out with one foot and nudges at his discarded yellow cardigan, “And we most definitely need to go do laundry now.”

“Aw, come on – you should just keep it like that.”

“Stanley!”

“What?” Stan asks as if he doesn’t know why Ford sounded so scandalized.

“You-! You used that to-to clean up our, um, discharge!”

Stan snorts and hugs Ford tight, “So? We can frame it too. Put it right up next to the hole in the wall. Just start’a collection of our most memorable moments.”

“That’s disgusting,” Ford argues, but there’s a bit of a laugh in his voice, “We’re _not_ going to save soiled laundry as a commemorative item from our…our first time with one another!”

“‘First time’?” Stan repeats and he rolls Ford over until he can see his face, “Am I to take it then that there’ll be a second time?”

Ford looks shy as he answers, “If…if you’d like there to be.”

“Psh! I’ve been carrying a torch a lot longer than you have, pal! You better believe they’ll be a second time!” He gives him a quick kiss, “And a third,” another kiss, “And a forth,” another kiss, “And a-!”

Stan doesn’t continue with numbers after this. Just kisses. Kiss after kiss after kiss. They melt into one another and Ford smiles beneath them, returns them, and it’s incredibly sweet. Just a nice, relaxing moment all snuggled up in bed with one another. As far as Stan is concerned, this is how he would like to spend the rest of his day (if not the rest of his life) but Ford eventually nudges him away, “C’mon. I gotta shower.”

“Want me to join you?” Stan offers and Ford bites his bottom lip, “Um, I dunno. Don’t-don’t know if that’d be a good idea.”

“Oh?”

“Well, yeah – I want to get cleaned up and I get the feeling you’d sorta impede that,” Ford admits in a whisper and Stan kisses him again, “True enough. But hey, the water’s right there to clean us up again.”

Ford looks torn and there’s this little notch between his eyebrows that Stan can’t resist kissing, “Hey, you tellin’ me you’re not up for more?”

“Al-already?” this is squeaked with such shock that Stan chokes on his own boisterous laughter before he gets to his feet and offers Ford a hand up, “I’m game if you are.”

Ford looks at the hand for just a moment before a wide grin takes his face.

He puts his hand in Stanley’s.

 

+

 

It’s a while before either of them can pass for ‘clean’. And even when they are, they find themselves trapped in a warm, hazy bubble. They keep floating towards one another, like magnets, that connection between them clicking again and again. Stan is completely okay with this. Actually, he totally loves it. As far as he’s concerned, they should christen every bit of their apartment with this new found passion so, he sets about continually seducing Ford.

Ford seems stunned by it and Stan just eats that up. The look of surprise on his twin’s face each time never gets old. He’s surprises Ford in the shower, on the futon, on the floor _beside_ the futon. Then against the refrigerator, on the kitchen table…

His brother grouses a little bit about having to clean up after each encounter, but it’s clear Ford’s over the moon about it. Who wouldn’t be? Nothing like an endless string of handjobs and blowjobs to make someone blissful. Especially when they’re so new to him. Stan’s had his fair share of sex, but it’s clear that it’s Ford’s first foray. The first few encounters are quite speedy, but Stan watches Ford slowly begin to build some endurance.

The sun has long since set and the night is a nice one. Their last session took a bit out of Ford and he’s zonked out on the futon while Stan sneaks out to the balcony. He’s wearing a white shirt and blue stripped pajama shorts. The breeze outside feels good against his bare legs and he smiles at the sensation while he digs under the usual potted plant to find his cigarettes. He draws out a stick and rolls it between his fingers, contemplating whether or not he should light it up. He thinks of the patches hidden away in one of the bathroom cabinets. He should probably just slap one of those on…it would certainly make his brother happier.

But nothing really hit the spot like a post-coital smoke…

“Fuck it,” Stan mutters and he pulls out his lighter. He gets in a few drags, watching the smoke curl out and away from him before he hears sounds behind him. Ford shuffles out in a similar get up to Stan’s – white shirt but striped, long red pajama bottoms instead. He’s also taken out the time to find one of his beanies and slap it over his wild hair. He looks sleepy-eyed until he spots the cigarette. He scowls at it as he drowsily mumbles, “Thought you’re trying to quit.”

“I am,” Stan promises, “But this is the best way to celebrate after a few bouts of sex.”

“I doubt that,” Ford grumbles as he puts his arms on the railing, “Think the best way would be to live.”

“I am alive.”

“For now. But there’s always emphysema, cancer-“

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Stan cuts him off, “Loads of awful diseases tied with smokin’. I got it, Captain Buzzkill. Let me just have this one. Can’t quit right away, y’know? It’s like they say, Romania wasn’t built in a day.”

“That’s Rome,” Ford chuckles and he knows Stan knows that too. Sometimes Stan says things wrong on purpose just to amuse him. He looks out over the city and sighs, “Could be worse, I suppose. You could be lighting up a big, fat cigar.”

“I’ve smoked those before too. They’re pretty nice,” Stan teases but he frowns when he sees Ford’s hands go to the railing and tighten. Ford’s eyes are still drifting over the scenery but he looks…lost. Lost in his own thoughts. Then he murmurs, “Dad smokes cigars.”

Stan doesn’t say anything to this. He knows it’s true. Their father still smokes them upon occasion. Just like he drinks a good deal. In fact, Stan’s pretty sure the man has at least one beer a day, if not more. It annoys Stanley to think of it – to think of doing _anything_ his father does.  But hell, the old man breathes _air_ too and it’s not like Stan’s going to stop doing that just because Pops does.

He may dislike the man, but he can’t help sharing similarities with him. Even though he sure as hell wishes he didn’t. And dislike is very swiftly turning to actual hate. Especially after what Ford told him. Still, he’s sure he sees what Ford is trying to do, so he finally speaks, “Told you. I’m not like Pops.”

“I wasn’t saying you were,” Ford says and he continues to not look at him, that faraway attitude still about him, voice very soft, “What I told you about Dad…I-I haven’t thought about it in a long time. I don’t like to. I want…”

He shifts on his feet and draws in a ragged breath, “I want to forget all about it.”

Stan has no idea what to say to that, but he doesn’t need to say anything because Ford continues, “But I can’t. It’s always there, you know? And it comes to mind at the weirdest of times. Normally I just push it aside, but now that you know…”

He trails off and it’s quiet again for a long time. So long that Stan finishes his cigarettes and flicks the butt over the side. He wonders where it’ll land and he debates whether or not he should smoke another. What he really wants is to draw Ford into his arms. He wants to hold him, but…something about how Ford is right now…

It doesn’t seem right. It feels like the wrong move to make. So instead he stands next to his brother, puts his arms on the railing and risks a peek down. Bad decision. He swiftly looks straight back up. He looks out over the city. Stan has something of a fear of heights. It was much worse when they first moved into this apartment.

When they first moved in, he absolutely refused to even go out on the balcony. But over time he grew to accept it – as long as he didn’t look down, it wasn’t like he was high up. If anything, it was like he was looking out over a deeply expressive matte painting. That’s how pretty the city could be at night. In the early morning. Just a collection of tall buildings and several dots of light.

Finally the moment is broken by Ford, “Remember when we were like, thirteen and we went to South Carolina?”

It’s evident he’s not really expecting Stan to answer. Stan waits patiently and it’s the craziest thing - his eyes are starting to water. He doesn’t know why. His heart picks up beating harder and he swallows as his brother goes on, “Dad was driving, Mom in the passenger seat, you and me in the back…we were going to visit Aunt Charlotte.”

“It was a long drive. A boring one. Dad had a beer can between his legs and I said ‘Hey Dad, aren’t you not supposed to drink and drive?’ and he said ‘Hey, aren’t you supposed to mind your own business?’”

Stan remembers.

“Mom laughed. Told Dad to go easy on me, ‘cause his tone of voice was pretty grouchy. But that’s just him, right? Grouchy, I mean. How often have we even seen him _smile_? Has he _ever_ smiled? I don’t…” Ford shakes his head, “I _think_ I remember him smiling when our principal told him I might get into West Coast Tech. How the school puts out future millionaires…”

He sucks in a breath, “Anyway – doesn’t matter. We got to Aunt Charlotte’s place, got settled in. Everything was fine. You and I played with JT and Violet. Nice little family reunion. Uncle Mike made dinner, played horseshoes with Pops while Mom and Charlotte caught up. It was…all fine.”

Suddenly Stan wants Ford to stop. He wants desperately for him to stop. For the story, the memory, to end right there. He doesn’t know why – or maybe it’s because he knows _exactly_ why. But he doesn’t tell him that. He lets him go on, “Anyway, you and JT were off somewhere. Violet had gone to bed. I think you were catching fireflies or watching TV or something, I don’t know – somehow we got separated. I went to go get an ice pop out of their garage. We’d binged on a bunch of them after dinner, remember? Your face looked like you’d made out with a rainbow.”

“I wanted one. I was thinking blue or green or,” he trails off and picks up with, “Dad was there. In the garage. I don’t know where Mike or Mom or Charlotte was. It was just Dad and he was smoking a cigar. I remember, because the tip was glowing bright orange, the lights dimmed or off. Can’t really remember that bit but I do know I was…afraid. I was scared to go get an ice pop out of the cooler, because it was near him and he barked at me about it. Asked me what the hell was the matter and I didn’t want to say him, so I just said I didn’t know. I came over and tried to act natural, kept telling myself there was nothing to worry about, but then he called me over to him.”

“What could I do?” Ford shrugs like it’s nothing, “I went over and he took the cigar and put it on me.”

He rubs his right shoulder, “He put the end right here. I was wearing a tank so it burned, exposed skin, y’know? But he drew it away just as fast as it was pressed there and it was…there was a mark, but it wasn’t bad. He told me that when I made a sound, when I…,” he stops and shakes his head.

Stan just knows he was going to say ‘cried’. He tries so hard not to think about his brother - so small, so young - fresh burn mark on his shoulder and _crying_. Ford just picks up like he didn’t stop, “He took me by the arm and dragged me into the house. Dragged me into the bathroom. He put some cream on it, slapped a band-aid over it, and then he told me that it was an accident. He pulled down his shades just a bit though, just enough so I could see his eyes and he said, ‘Like you tellin’ me my own business in the car was an accident, right’?”

“And I asked ‘what’? Because I really didn’t know what he was talking about and he reminded me of what I said in the car about his drinking and driving. He told me that it must have been an accident – my mouthing off to him like that. Just like this was an accident. And I told him he was right, because he was,” Ford’s hands slowly unclench and go into the pockets of his sleep pajamas, “I knew better than to say anything. He was the adult – I shouldn’t have questioned him. And the burn wasn’t bad – it healed quickly. All I had to do was make sure I wore shirts. Told you…I don’t have ‘guns’ anyway. Better to keep my arms covered.”

He sniffs and runs a finger under his nose, “Anyway, it was a long, long time ago.”

Stan can’t hold back anymore. He draws Ford into his arms and hugs him tight. Ford doesn’t hug him back. He stands there, stiff as a board as he sighs, “Don’t cry, Stanley.”

“I’m-I’m not. I’m not!” Stan gasps out but his words are belied by the watery way they come out, how full of emotion they are.

“Yes, you are,” Ford returns and his voice is the exact opposite. It’s robotic, dry and monotone, “The tears started right when I got to the bit about Violet being asleep. I could see you out of the corner of my eyes, getting all worked up. I wouldn’t have continued, but I was on a roll, figured I’d finish.”

Stan makes a loud sucking in noise, eyes wet, nose running and he hates himself for it as he sobs out, “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t I know? Why d-d-d-din-yuh,” he breaks over this, can’t finish it and finally Ford’s arms move.

He gently pats at Stan’s back, “Well, I’m the older brother, aren’t I? I should watch over my younger sibling.”

The words are said with an attempt at black humor, as a way to diffuse the heaviness of the conversation, but it only serves to set Stan’s teeth on edge, “You’re not that much older than me! Coupla minutes at most!”

“Yeah, but I like lording it over you,” Ford tries one more time for a laugh but it’s obvious Stan’s not up for it for so he pushes on, “Besides, I told you…it wasn’t a big deal. I was fine. It was just a mild burn. It healed up. And don’t you remember the next day? Dad took us to see a movie – he was in a great mood.”

“I don’t give a shit about how he felt!” Stan snarls and he burrows deeper into Ford if possible, knocks him up against one side of the railing. He reaches out and rubs at the shoulder Ford said their father burned and he feels himself burning deep inside, burning with rage at the man who would do such a thing. Five years. Eleven to sixteen. And this was just one new story.

 Ford keeps running his hands over him soothingly, “I shouldn’t have told you. I’m sorry.”

“No!” Stan snaps and he pulls away to rub at his eyes, “Don’t! Don’t be sorry!”

“I am though,” Ford says and he’s still talking in that voice – that this-is-oh-so-‘normal’ voice. It’s as if he’s merely discussing the weather or a bad test grade, “We were having a great day and I ruined it. Just one of a hundred reasons why I’ve never said anything. It’s all in the past anyway. What does it matter? Like I said, it’s over now. Dad’s a completely different person than he was back then. Our relationship’s changed. He’s been very supportive and all the stuff that happened back then – I mean, really, I had it coming.”

“You? What?” Stan gasps, offended at the mere suggestion, but Ford doesn’t look bothered in the least, “Well, I _do_ have a smart mouth. And it can’t be easy having a kid with my, uh, special features. Not to mention I make mistakes – knock shit over, break stuff, stain things – you know; stupid slip-ups. When you do something wrong, you should pay for it. And I did. But like I said, that was a long time ago. I learned my lesson and now here we are.”

Stan can’t believe what he’s hearing. Can’t believe how well Ford’s convinced himself of these things and his brother’s voice takes on a bit more color as he goes on admonishing himself, “Really, I should have known better. I kept it from you this long and it was for the best. You were happier not knowing about any of it. I promise I won’t tell you any more stories. It’s better that way – ignorance is bliss.”

“I don’t _want_ to be ignorant!” Stan hisses and he cups Ford’s face in his hands, tries to look into his eyes but Ford avoids his gaze. Ford instead directs his eyes to the city and Stan growls, tugs him close and kisses him. He tries in one kiss to say everything he can’t with words. Words are inadequate. Words don’t get across how sorry Stanley is. How he wishes Ford would have told him sooner. How he wants Ford to tell him everything no matter how awful it is. How-how he loves him so much he _hurts_ with it.

He remembers that trip. He remembers it so differently than Ford does. He remembers eating ice pops, playing games with JT, teasing Violet. He remembers Ford having his nose stuck in a book half the time and he never paid attention to anything Ford wore. He doesn’t recall Ford switching from tanks to full shirts. He doesn’t recall Ford showing any signs whatsoever that he’d been burned. Ford seemed so normal. Stan hadn’t sensed anything wrong – not at all.

He keeps trying to search his memory of that time for some hint but there’s…nothing. There’s just nothing. Nothing that would have indicated that Ford was abused. Pops yelled at them, he smacked his fists loudly on tables, he slammed doors – but Stan only remembers that one time with the belt. Past that, there’s not a thing he can point his finger to and say that the man was physically violent. Verbally abusive, yes, sure - he had a lot of evidence for that.

But physically? There was just the one scar. But now here he is finding out there were other scars – other cuts and bruises and burns and these just healed, became invisible on his twin’s skin. But not in Ford’s heart, not his soul. Stan can’t stop thinking about it. Thinking about all the wounds Ford carries deep inside him. He kisses him and kisses him and he feels himself going crazy with the need to show Ford he’s loved, he’s safe. That Stan will protect him and take care of him and heal him. Somehow he’ll fix him inside and out.

And he knows sex is not the answer, not even close. It’s not a cure-all. But it’s the best he can do for now, it’s the only thing he feels like he can currently offer, so his hands dip beneath the elastic waistband of Ford’s bottoms and they find his cock. It’s not aroused, not yet but he starts touching it, stroking it, cupping his sack and Ford pulls away a little, that surprised look on his face again, “Wh-what’re you doin’?”

“Pretty obvious,” Stan murmurs against his neck as he kisses there, kisses Ford’s right ear before drawing the lobe into his mouth to suck on it. Ford clutches at him, gasping and Stan takes him, turns him, presses him carefully against the sliding glass door as his hand keeps working, keeps moving and he feels Ford’s length start to grow, start to fill his palm and Stan bites his bottom lip. Christ, Ford is so fucking _responsive_. It’s so goddamn _sexy_ and he hears his twin moan weakly in his ear, “No…Stanley…n-not out here. Someone…someone could see!”

“Good,” Stan rumbles and he captures Ford’s mouth again, his tongue diving in deeply, tasting Ford fully. He pushes his brother’s bottoms down just enough so that he springs free – he’s flushed now, growing bigger with each stroke of Stan’s hands and he chuckles, “You’ve got some length on ya, Sixer. Some good girth…might need two hands for all’a this.”

“ _Ohhhhh_ ,” Ford keens out, clutching at Stan’s hair, hips rocking up into Stan’s movements. He’s taken on that lovely shade of rose that Stan’s so enamored with and his face! Stan loves his expression. It’s warring between shyness and pure animalistic need. Still, Ford breathes, “No, we-we can’t…I can’t. Not-not again…”

“You can. You will. I want you to.” Stan murmurs and kisses him again as reassurance. While it’s true they’ve had several sexual encounters tonight, Stan’s pretty sure he can coax one more out of him. In fact, he’s quite desperate to. And not just because the balcony is one of the places they have had yet to christen.  He wants Ford to feel good – he needs him to. Not want – _need_. It’s soul crushing how much he needs it and he catches Ford looking from side to side, sort of gauging their neighbors’ balconies – trying to see if anyone is out.

Stan husks a laugh. Is his twin worried about spectators or hoping for them? Does voyeurism get his blood going? Stan’s on the fence about it himself – on one hand, he wants people to see, to know that Ford is his and his alone. On the other, he doesn’t want anyone to see what’s his, because it’s _his_. It’s private and special. It belongs to him. Ford _belongs_ to him and Stan worries a little about how possessive that sounds in his mind. But he ignores it because this isn’t about him. This is about Ford.

This is about Ford needing to be shown love, so he drops to his knees and takes Ford into his mouth without hesitation. Ford lets out a cry, his fingers going to his lips and he nibbles on them, clearly trying to stifle himself. Stan looks up through the fringe of his long hair to see this and groans. It’s a fucking sexy sight. Ford with the six fingers of his left hand dancing along his mouth. His lips kiss-bitten and bright against the pale skin of his fingertips. He moves on to feasting on his knuckles as high pitched noises keep working out of him.

Stan draws himself off Ford’s cock, rubs the pulsing velvet tip against his wet bottom lip as he purrs, “It’s okay, Stanford. I wanna hear you.”

“ _Ahhhh_ ,” Ford manages weakly and he moves his hand away, moves it down to the top of his brother’s head. Stan finds his other hand, eases it up to join the other. Soon all twelve fingers are threading their way through his curls, “That’s right. C’mon…grab my hair. Show me what you want.”

“Sta- _ah_!-Stanley! Ye-yeah! Oh! Oh… _mmpf_!” Ford’s voice carries as he does as requested. He takes a firm, but overall tender grip on Stan’s hair and starts directing him. It’s different from the first time – less feverish. Stan drools a little, feels saliva roll down one side of his mouth and his knees ache a bit on the unforgiving concrete, but fuck if it isn’t worth it. Worth it to hear every sound that escapes Ford as he sucks him down. He relaxes his jaw, remembers what Jimmy taught him so long ago about how best to deep throat someone and when he does, Ford lets out a broken cry,

Clearly his brother didn’t expect to go so deep; to feel so much and while his stamina has improved, Stan’s strenuous efforts are too much for him. Ford’s hips arch, posture rigid as he cums. Stan’s throat works strongly as he thoroughly swallows down Ford’s convulsing release. Warm, sticky jets spurt into his mouth again and again and he drinks each of them in, happy to have them, corners of his eyes watering with it. Ford slumps against the door and Stan draws off, licks him clean. He works over Ford until he grows soft again then draws himself and Ford’s bottoms up.

He cracks his jaw and absently rubs at his knees while Ford leans all his weight against the sliding glass door, looking delirious and drained. And dopey. His eyes are closed and he has the stupidest smile on his face. Stan absolutely loves it. He loves Ford. He loves him so much that he can barely breathe. In fact, he draws in a thick lungful of air before he can speak, “How’s about we go inside? Watch some more TV?”

Ford doesn’t answer. Instead he lets Stan direct him around, clearly still floating on the euphoria of his latest orgasm. They end up on the futon, mindlessly watching a movie on the VCR, cuddled up against one another when they hear a key moving in the lock of the front door. Fidds walks in with a large pizza box and a weighted down plastic bag. He locks the door behind him and turns to see the two.

Stan is leaning back with one arm over the back of the futon. Ford is bunched up against his chest. They have a blanket over them. This is not a new sight to see. However…

Fidds raises one eyebrow. He looks around the apartment. His eyes linger on the hole in the wall before moving back to them. Finally he beams, “Congratulations.”

Both Stan and Ford blink and repeat the following question at the same time, “What?”

Fidds puts down the pizza on the little table before them and sits crossed legged at one end of it. He reaches into the bag and draws out a big energy drink can, which he pops open and takes a swig of before continuing, “On finally getting yer heads outta yer asses and couplin’ up.”

“Couple?” Stan breathes the word, “What the hell are you-?”

“I was gonna stay at Susie’s tonight, but poor girl got called into work. So I figured I’d come back here, see what was up with you guys. Know your family’s in town and I was wonderin’ about that, how it’s been goin’ and all, when it occurred to me we hadn’t had a proper movie night in a while. I called you both on your cells, but got no answer.”

He looks from one of them to the other at this. His gaze is pointed and they both squirm under it. Fidds seems to be enjoying the hell out of this response as he picks up again, “Still, didn’t think I’d be interrupting too much, so I got a pizza from Tino’s. Extra-large, four different kinds of cheeses – no toppings since we all differ on that and a few cold drinks. Picked up a tape from the nearby Goodwill for twenty five cents – figured it’d be a good night in.”

Fidds takes another slug of his drink then grins over the rim, “Wouldn’ta bothered if I knew you all was knockin’ boots.”

“Knock-knockin-?” Ford stutters over the word, clearly mortified but Fidds just laughs, “Ain’t no big deal. Truth be told, it’s kind of a relief on my part. Don’t have to deal with any more of that tension. Happy for the two of you. Susie’ll be too,” he squints, “Though I think I owe her a fiver. She banked on this happenin’ sooner than I did. I had you pegged for New Year’s.”

Ford looks close to short circuiting, but Stan just looks amused, “How’d you know?”

“Lots of ways. But mainly it smells like sex in here.”

Ford gets off Stan to immediately flop on to the other side of the futon. He buries his face deep into the cushions while Stan just doubles over laughing. He snatches up a slice of pizza and gives Fidds a devil-may-care smile, “So, what movie we gonna watch?”

 

+

 

“Okay, how about this,” Stan grinds some beans and keeps talking, even though neither Fidds nor Ford can hear him. Once he stops grinding his voice is audible again, “How about that universe?”

“Neither of us heard any of that,” Fidds points out dryly, “Be best ta repeat it.”

“All of it?”

Both Ford and Fidds nod and Stan lets out a little disgruntled noise before saying, “I was saying, how’s about a universe where we fight monsters around the world? On a ship – we could call it the ‘Stan-O-War 2’ on accounta we had one, but never got to go on it. Mainly cause we ended up coming here and it turns out Ford’s got a weak tummy tum.”

He nudges his brother at this and Ford flashes him a death glare even as he goes on, “Anyway, could be fun. Though we’d hafta fix Ford’s sea sickness first. Can’t punch a kraken in the face if he’s blowin’ chunks over the side. Or – hey! Maybe you could blow chunks _on_ him! That’d show ‘em!”

“Nice, Stanley,” Ford huffs with an added eye roll, but Fidds just shakes his head, “I’m more a land man, myself. Closest I get to floatin’ on water is in a pool.”

“Well, how’s about you think of one then,” Stan offers cordially and Fidds scratches at his beard, “Okay. Huh…okay, alright! Got one! How’s about a world where we’re rodeo stars?”

Neither answer at first as a girl walks up and orders a caramel latte, but once Ford starts working on it, he finds a moment between drizzling the caramel on top of the drink to argue, “Stan can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not?” Stan remarks, pouring the freshly ground beans into a nearby canister, “I don’t have a problem with horses.”

“Yeah, but if you sit on one you’d probably think you’re pretty high up,” Ford returns and he hands the drink to the girl, thanking her for her purchase before continuing, “Fear of heights and all.”

“I do _not_ have a fear of heights!” Stan mutters, “And even if I do – being on a horse is not that far up off the ground, wise guy!”

“Yeah right! You get creeped out when you get up on a ladder to change the light bulbs in the shop,” Ford laughs and Stan lightly kicks out at his butt. Ford dodges the weak attempt with a laugh and then darts over to tug at Stan’s ponytail. Stan lets out a little ‘oh ho, yeah?’ and the two starts scrambling all over one another.

Fidds lets out a heavy sigh. He’d thought the whole tension-laden flirting thing would die down after the two consummated their relationship. Boy, was he wrong. Still, he can’t help but grin, happy that the two seem to have reached some semblance of happiness. Even if their parents are still in town. This fact has Fidds feeling a bit like a hunted hare. Currently safe but just waiting, waiting, waiting for the hunters to pass.

He knows he shouldn’t – they’re not his kin. His Momma and Daddy are leagues different from the Pines’ folks, but still, he worries for Ford and Stanley. He worries for them a lot. The two brothers ease off wrestling with one another only for Stan to rumble, “Okay, how about a universe where there are two Fords.”

“Two Fords?” Ford repeats with confusion, “What? Like, I have a universe where my twin is more exactly like me and less like a big ol’ goober?”

“No, smart ass,” Stan chuckles, “Like, I’m still around, but there are two of you. Maybe there’s a young you and an old you. A Ford that’s you – same age, same looks and all but there’s _another_ Ford who is older – like older than Pops even. A silver fox version of you.”

“Heaven forbid,” Ford says with amused warmth, “I don’t think the world could handle two of me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Stan’s voice takes on a husky timbre, “I think I could handle two of you…”

Ford’s gulp is very loud and Stan is leering at him quite suggestively. Fidds wonders if this how Ford and Stan view Susie and himself. He shakes his head and lets them have their flirtations. Really, it _is_ only fair. He’s pretty damned sure this is _exactly_ how he and Susie come across. Young love birds. Honestly, it can’t be helped. Thinking of his sweet girl, he draws out his phone to see if she’s texted him back. She has.

_U off at 5, Fiddles?_

He taps out: **U betcha, darlin’.**

He waits a few moments and his phone vibrates again with: _Iris took shift I covered 4 her – u up 4 grocery shopping w/ me?_

**U want me 2 handle ur fruit n veg. Kinky.**

_U bet I do. Need some1 to hold my melons._

Fidds snorts and then gets another text – _How r twins doin?_

**New relationship mode – big time!**

_Catch ‘em makin’ out in back yet? ;p_

**Not yet – only matter of time.**

_Wanna make out w/ me at my place later?_

**U know it.**

_Love you – meet u at Whole Foods?_

**Sure. Text U when I’m there. Love u 2.**

Fidds puts his phone away just as Shandra breezes in, “All right, all right. So who did the chalkboard out front this time?”

Stan and Ford swiftly break away from one another and proceed to stand several feet apart. Fidds’s eyes roll upwards. Good lord. If you know them well at all, it’s so easy to see they are over compensating – doing their very, very best to appear as if nothing’s changed.

He doesn’t know why they bother with the act around Shandra. She’s studying to be a report for heaven’s sake! Frankly, Fidds would not be surprised if she already knows. Heck, she might’ve even known about Stan’s interest in Ford before Fidds himself knew about it. And that’s a hell of a feat – not to put too much bragging to it.

But the girl’s sharp as a thumbtack – it’s one of the things he’s always liked best about her. That and the fact that she and Susie are thicker than thieves. Many’s the time he’s stepped aside so the two girls can have their time together. Girl nights are an honored tradition, after all, and Fidds can respect that. Besides, it usually gives him a chance to catch up with his own friends or work on school work.

Shandra looks between the two twins and they both sort of squirm under her gaze. A very slow, shrewd smile takes her face but she doesn’t say a word about it. _Oh yeah, she knows_ , Fidds thinks even as she says, “Come on – out with it. Which one of you was it?”

“What’s the problem with it?” Stan asks and Shandra’s lips screw up to one side, “Well, first off – it doesn’t advertise anything. Nothing about the lunch special, nothing about this month’s signature drink, not even anything about the Friday night jam session – which, by the way, Stanley – people have been asking when you’re going to come back and perform.”

“Whoa! Really?” Stan looks the perfect cross between stumped and happy. Ford looks at him and glows. Fidds just smirks – these two, lord. But he’s happy for Stan as well and he chimes in, “True enough. Had a coupla patrons ask myself.”

“Holy crap! I got fans?!”

“Yeah, yeah – don’t get too excited – you still haven’t answered my question,” Shandra grouses, “Who wrote the chalkboard?”

Ford looks guilty as he holds up one hand and Shandra shoots him a disappointed look, “Really?”

He just shrugs, “I…thought it would attract people in?”

“You thought people would flock to us when they read: ‘our coffee is an experience chalk is unable to convey’?”

Fidds snorts but Ford stands his ground, “It invokes a sense of mystery. And who doesn’t like a good mystery?”

“I think potential customers would much rather hear about our buy one, get one deal on scones or our new cinnamon dolce drink,” Shandra fires back, “I think they’d rather be told the facts than have smoke blown up their ass.”

“Language,” Fidds cautions and Shandra shoots him a glare, but she knows he’s right. After all, there are customers in the shop – even if they’re not within hearing range and, if they even are, they’re probably not listening in. Shandra continues on a cooler heel, “Just once, I’d like to come in and find you’ve written something on the board that makes sense.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Stan returns and Ford chuckles. Edwin walks in and moves towards the back to grab his apron. Ford starts taking his off his apron as does Fidds. Ford leans close to Stan and Fidds can hear every word, “Hey, you sure you’re going be okay working a double?”

“Ford, I got this. This ain’t my first double shift.”

“I-I know…it’s just,” Ford looks uneasy, “It’s your first double shift since…since the, um, _change_.”

The emphasis on change tells Fidds all he needs to know. Stan picks up on it too and he nudges Ford’s left foot with his, their attempt at sharing something of a public intimacy, “Don’t see why that should matter to you.”

“Well, I…I mean, I always worried about you working too hard before, but now,” Ford doesn’t continue in that vein, instead saying a little more loudly, “And you know I’m meeting Preston tonight.”

Stan lets out a pained groan and he looks to Fidds for sympathy. He points at his brother, “Can you believe this?”

Fidds can. He already heard the whole story the night they had pizza and watched films. He knows all about it and he knows for a fact Stan’s not going to like what he’s about to say next, “I believe it and I still say, it ain’t nothing but a good thing.”

Stan’s head falls back and he groans again, rubbing at his face in exasperation, “You two! Traitors! Traitor friends!”

“We’re not traitors, Stanley,” Fidds calmly corrects him; “We’re optimists.”

“That’s just as bad,” he grumbles, “That guy’s been a thorn in our side for over a year now and here you both are givin’ him sympathy he doesn’t deserve.”

“I won’t know that until I go out with him, will I?” Ford returns, “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with offering someone a second chance.”

“As long as it’s _one_ chance and one chance only,” Stan stresses, “I don’t care _who_ you are – no one deserves unlimited chances. Unlimited forgiveness.”

The two share a dark look that Fidds can’t decipher. It’s…worrisome. But he doesn’t want to pry. They’ll talk to him about it when they’re good and ready. Ford’s dark look drops away as he hands over one of his journals to Stan, “Here. There are a couple sketches in there – ideas for your tattoo.”

Stan takes the journal and flips through it idly as Ford warns, “Don’t lose it.”

“Not a problem.”

“Fidds?” Ford asks and Fidds nods. The two friends clock out and leave together. They separate at the bus station and Fidds intends to walk to Whole Foods when he remembers he left his chemistry book back at The Press Room. Needing it before tomorrow, he quickly back tracks to grab it. He does so and shares a few more words with both Shandra and Stan before heading back out. He doesn’t walk far before he bumps into someone.

He offers a cheery apology, but the man merely grunts at him. Fidds freezes and watches him walk away. The man looks…familiar. Fidds can’t place his finger on why. He doesn’t recall knowing anyone who has a mustache like that - who wears a fedora and shades. But there's something about his face…the structure of it. But then, he also had something of a negative energy about him. Something...unpleasant. He shakes it off and continues his trek to Whole Foods and Susie.

 

+

 

Shandra and Toby are to one side going over the books, Edwin’s in the back cleaning up and Stan’s working the counter. Since no customers are currently present, he flips through Ford’s notebook. He sees several designs, but nothing really calls out to him until he sees a really weird one. It doesn’t seem to have any sort of significance.

The design starts off by looking like a stick figure - big looped ‘O’, a lower case ‘t’ attached, but instead of breaking off into normal legs, it ends with what looks like a diamond. There are also small dots to either side of it, as well as what looks like waves and for the strangest reason, Stan can’t take his eyes off of it.

He doesn’t know why he likes it, but he does. He really, really likes it. It’s so different and oddly appealing. He runs his fingers over it and thinks about how it might look on his back shoulder when he hears the front door bell ring. He puts the journal away and automatically starts reciting the opening greeting, “Hi and welcome to The Press Room, what can I get you?”

The ‘you’ sort of drops in octaves as he realizes his father is standing right before him. The old man’s arms are crossed and his mustache twitches. It’s hard to see his eyes through his dark shades, but his gaze is directed on the board behind Stanley. He surveys it for a second, while Stan gets over his shock. Filbrick says flatly, “I’ll take a cup of coffee.”

All of Stan’s blood has drained to his feet. There’s a ringing in his ears. He thinks of a small boy wanting a green or blue ice pop and the fire that’s always banked within him roars. His hands ball into fists and there’s a tiny, scrambling voice in the back of his head screeching at him to keep it together, keep it together, keep it together…

“Hey! Didja hear me, ya knucklehead?”

Stan feels like steam is coming out of him as he hisses, “Yes. I did. What kind?”

“What kind?” It’s asked in that _tone_. The tone that screams that Stan is stupid for asking. Stan reminds himself he’s at work, he reminds himself he’s in a public place, he reminds himself that there are witnesses…

“Yes. We have our house roast, hazelnut, Sumatra…” the words come out between gritted teeth. Filbrick either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, most likely the latter as he sighs, “Fine. House. Black. Large. No sugar. No cream. No frou-frou crap.”

Stan turns and makes the drink. He makes the drink and tries not to think of Ford. Tries not to think of burn marks and belts used like whips. He tries not to think of a scared kid who suffered silently. He pours the coffee and shoves it at Filbrick. His fingers shake with barely restrained violence. They punish the register with their force as he rings him up, “That’ll be two fifty.”

Filbrick hands him exact change. Naturally. Stan puts it away and watches with thinly veiled loathing as Pops drinks the coffee. It should be scalding hot – the man doesn’t react. Why would he? He’s the fucking _devil_. He’s used to hellfire and brimstone. Hot coffee is nothing to him. He grimaces after his first sip and he sets it aside. He looks at Stan and asks gruffly, “You gotta break coming up?”

“No,” Stan snaps. It’s a lie. He should actually be taking his break right about now. He is working a double, after all. But he refuses to take it. Not right now. If he takes it now, if he goes somewhere with this man…he doesn’t know what will happen.

But Filbrick turns his attentions to Toby and Shandra, eyes them summarily and walks over, “Excuse me. You two the management of this place?”

Toby and Shandra share a look between one another. Toby eventually answers, his tone wary, “I’m the owner.”

He points to Stan, “I need to speak with my son.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t ask politely if Stan can have a break. He doesn’t explain why he needs to speak with him. He’s just…blunt. To the point. Like those simple words alone are enough to convey everything. However, Toby – being Toby – doesn’t need anymore, his voice squeaking nervously, “Of course! Stanley, you can take your break! Shandra, can you call Edwin up front?”

Shandra eyes Filbrick questionably but does as her boss requests. Stan wants to scream. He wants to throw something. Instead he chews on his lips, chews on them so hard he’s worried he’s going to make them bleed as he forcefully tugs off his apron and puts it to one side. Edwin comes out and takes his place. Shandra looks at Stan with worry and Toby tries to focus back on the books, clearly uncomfortable about all of this.

Stan stalks towards the exit that takes him out to the back alley, his father following behind him. The very minute the door shuts behind them, Stan loses it. He completely loses it and he clocks his father square in the face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other universes I mentioned are credited to the following people:
> 
> 2 Fords AU: [bigpenisgaylol](http://bigpenisgaylol.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Rodeo!Falls AU: [vermillionsketcher](http://vermillionsketcher.tumblr.com/)
> 
> If I did not give the proper credit to someone, please let me know!


	18. Chapter 18

Stan can’t believe what he’s just done.

He stands there, still in a boxer’s stance, fists raised – one of them aching, because he just punched his father in the face. Right in the nose. Stan lowers his hands and stands upright; an apology at the ready and that’s completely absurd. The man doesn’t _deserve_ an apology. That is, in fact, the absolute _last_ thing he deserves. Stan can only assume his initial reaction came from some wayward feelings of familiar entitlement.

But this man isn’t his family. Not really. It doesn’t matter if he calls him ‘Pops’ – the man has been no father to him. And he certainly hasn’t been one to Ford. And Ford truly _is_ his family. More so than anyone living. Still, Stan will admit some shock at his own actions. He’s thought about hitting his father before – even _dreamed_ about it – but he never thought in a million years he’d actually do it.

This certainly has been a week where the impossible has happened for him, hasn’t it? And he always thought it would make him feel good to hit Pops. Better. But if anything he feels…sick. Damaged, and he waits for the response – waits for the man to yell at him or hit him back, when the craziest thing happens.

The old bastard laughs.

He _laughs_.

It is not a pleasant sound. It’s dark, with a reedy edge to it. When Stan hit him, his head had snapped back then bowed forward. He lifts it now so that he can look at Stanley. His shades were knocked slightly askew and Stan can catch a glint of his eyes – bloodshot with an icy glaze to them. He pushes the shades back into place and reaches into one pocket where he withdraws a handkerchief. Filbrick presses it to his nose to sop up a little of the blood that escaped and he sniffs, still chuckling, “Good to see those boxing lesson I paid for weren’t a waste.”

Stan has yet to find his voice, but for once Filbrick doesn’t seem bothered, “How long ya been waitin’ to do that, boy? Nine years? Eight? Been a long time comin’.”

“Ford told me!” Stan snaps at last, everything flooding back into him, surprise being erased by the returning tide of his fury, “He told me what you did to him! That the belt wasn’t the only time you hit him!”

Stan can actually see one of Filbrick’s eyebrows rise above the frame of this shades, “He told you, huh? Funny – you two’ve always been so far up each other’s assholes I figured you already knew. Guess you ain’t as close as I thought.”

Filbrick draws away the handkerchief, seemingly satisfied he’s stifled the blood flow. He puts it away and adjusts his suit, straightening himself up, “I suppose it answers why you haven’t decked me before now. Just assumed you were yellow.”

“I am not,” Stan hisses, pointing an accusing finger at him, “I’m also not a child abusing monster!”

“Oh no, you’re a big man,” Filbrick scoffs, “Playin’ yer geetar and working random construction jobs,” it’s clear he made sure to pronounce ‘guitar’ as mockingly as possible and Stan doesn’t understand what his problem with construction jobs is until Filbrick elaborates, “All menial tasks any knucklehead can do.”

“Of course, because only _geniuses_ run pawn shops!”

Filbrick smirks; “See you still got that mouth on you.”

“Yeah – want to take a swing at me? Or better yet, burn me with your cigar? Whip me with your belt? Take your pick!” Stan snarls as he glares at him, “Y’know, maybe there’s some universe where I _don’t_ stand up to you – but it sure as hell ain’t this one!”

Filbrick doesn’t have a response to that. Instead he crosses his arms and just stands there – looking rigid and imposing. A thousand words and insults come to Stan’s mind but they’re outnumbered by the questions. The millions upon millions of questions. They all fight at once to come out, but only one wins, “Why?”

“Why?” his father repeats as if this is a particularly stupid thing to ask.

Stan doesn’t think it is, “Why did you do it?”

Filbrick doesn’t answer and Stan rubs at the hand he punched him with. He paces around, feeling like a caged animal, anger and curiosity flushing around inside him, a revolting cocktail of emotions. He knows there’s no possible answer his father can give that will be acceptable. Because there isn’t one. There’s no excuse for hitting a child – not ever. But the question is out now and he waits to see what line the old man will feed him.

Finally he gets, “I ever tell you how I met your Mom?”

Well, this is the last thing Stan expects. He stops pacing as Filbrick continues, “I was a kid in high school. Coupla buddies of mine convinced me to go to the school fair. There was a psychic’s tent and they were all keen to go inside. I called bullshit, but I followed ‘em in and there she was. Working the whole get-up – shawl over her head, big hoop earrings, crystal ball and tarot cards. She read their fortunes and then offered to read mine and I told her to blow it out her ear.”

He sighs, shaking his head, “But my buddies pushed me into it, so I let her. She sold me the most cockamamie story – how I was gonna see a guy dressed all in purple walking backwards, bump into an eagle, get my first ‘A’ in science class, get a flat tire and then I was gonna get a kiss and I’d smile. She said it’d be a _real_ smile too – and I told her she was full of it. I left that tent and figured I’d never see her again and you know what happened?”

“All that shit – all that crazy crap. It came true. I saw a kid in school the next day wearing all purple and he was walking backwards. The school mascot – a guy dressed as an eagle – bumped into me in the hallway. My teacher, Mr. Marlowe, gave me a test paper back with an ‘A’ on it and when I went out to my car that day, my tire was flat,” Filbrick huffs, “I was totally bowled over and then there she was, holding out a jack and grinning. She bent down and kissed me. And boy, I tell you…I sure as hell smiled.”

Stan has no idea where on earth this is going. It’s not like Pops to go off on a tangent. He’s snapped at both Stan and Ford enough to ‘get to the point’ that this all seems very odd. But Stan lets him go on, “Then she pulled out a camera, snapped my picture and said ‘gotcha’. Took me a while to piece it all together, but it turns out she conned me. Conned me good. See, she had bets all over the school that she could get me to smile. No one had ever seen me smile. So, she set it all up.”

“My buddies? She bribed them to bring me to her. The guy in purple? Paid him. The mascot? Paid him. Mr. Marlowe – she even paid him. Then she slashed my tire and all she had to do was wait. The money she made more than covered her expenses. Got herself a nice tidy sum for all of it. I was just a chump. But once I figured it all out, I knew – I knew then and there, that I had to have her in my life.”

Filbrick breathes in deeply, “She had a scholarship. Earned it all on her own. She was going to New York to some fancy college – she was gonna be a writer. I was amazed by her. She was making something of herself. She was dedicated and gorgeous and smart as hell. I did all I could to win her over and eventually, _eventually_ she caved. Went out with me and I was the happiest son of a bitch you ever did see.”

Even with the shades on, Stan knows his eyes are far off and misty with memory. But when next he speaks, his voice is colder, more its usual tone, “Then we went to see a scary movie. Shouldn’ta been that big a deal. It was a normal date – just like all the others, but at this one - she got all spooked, snuggled up next to me and next thing I know, we’re in the back of my car and I’m too stupid to play it safe. I knocked her up – I disgraced her.”

This is all news to Stanley. Neither his mother nor his father has ever spoken about how they got together, how they got married and decided to have children. Now Stan’s starting to realize why. It shouldn’t be a surprise, really, yet somehow it is. Stan frowns as his father lays it out there for him, “It was all a mistake – one lousy mistake and it cost us everything. She had to give up her scholarship, got shackled to me. There were no other choices – not as far as we or our parents were concerned. Then _he_ was born.”

Stan feels his hackles rise at the way Filbrick says ‘he’, but he leashes it for now, “This kid – with these _deformities_. Six fingers? Six toes? Questioned his paternity the moment I saw ‘im! And if that wasn’t bad enough, then there you were – tagging right along after him.”

“You’re blaming _Ford_ for me?” Stan scoffs.

“No, I blame myself. But it don’t change the fact that he was all I planned for and I didn’t even plan for him! _He_ came first; he was the root of the problem. You were just an unfortunate byproduct.”

“Is that why you never hit me?” Stan hears himself asking the question but can’t believe he’s even asking it. This isn’t the kind of conversation anyone should have to have with their parent, “What? I wasn’t worth your consideration?”

“You disappointed?”

“God, no,” Stan spits with disgust, “I’m just trying to understand your warped way of thinking! You hit him, but you never hit me! Even though I was the one who came up with the plan to move the television that night. That was _me_ , Pops. Not Ford. He took the fall, but it was _my_ fault. And the other time he told me about – he said you got at him for not minding his own business, for shooting off at the mouth. I’ve screamed and shouted at you more’n anybody, yet you’ve never laid a hand on me! It doesn’t make any goddamn sense!”

“You think it’s _supposed_ to?” Filbrick mutters, mustache twitching, “Sure Ford told you it was a long time ago. And it was. I wouldn’t touch him now. But then…your mom and me were in a rocky patch. And that night it started kickin’ off in me how much this kid ruined my life. More importantly, he ruined your _mother’s_ life.”

Stan starts shaking his head, eyes wide, mouth dropping open because clearly his father is _insane._ But Filbrick just walks around the alley in a smooth circle, his hands buried in his pockets and occasionally jiggling there like he has a handful of change, “Your mother’s the only person I love. Only one I ever will and because of me, she’s had to pay. She’s had to put up with not one, but two kids, who take everything away from her. I’m responsible for that, but so is _he_. He was born first, he’s the burden. He’s a compilation of lost dreams and mistakes made flesh.”

Filbrick stops his walking and turns to face Stan. Stan can feel the man’s eyes on him, even if he can’t see them through the shades and he finds himself backing up slightly, feeling menaced as his father comes closer to him, “And you? You’re just...”

He backs off and offers a shrug, “You’re nothing, an irritant. A fly, buzzing in my ear. Everything you’ve ever gotten – the boxing lessons, the guitar – hell, the clothes on your back, they’re just afterthoughts. If it was up to me, we’d have cut all ties with you the moment you were outta the house. But you latched yourself right on to Ford, didn’t you? Like a bumbling leech – just suckin’ him dry. Too bad I never learned him that. Drilled into him what a screw up you are.”

Stan ignores the words. Ignores how they stab and hurt. They shouldn’t hurt – he doesn’t understand _why_ they hurt. This man is a monster; this man is not a father. This man is…but the words _do_ hurt, and his eyes feel hot with them. There’s an awful, painful feeling welling up inside of him as he bursts out, “Why would you even care what Ford thinks? If-if he’s sucha mistake?”

“Because, right about the time I stopped smackin’ him around, it became clear he might be worth a damn,” Filbrick grunts, “Your principal told us – told us how Ford could make it into this fancy school, be a future millionaire.”

Filbrick pushes down his shades just enough so he can meet Stan’s eyes with his own, “I was actually _impressed_. Here I’d been thinking him nothing but a symbol of ruin - turns out he’s capable of paying us back. He can make it up to us, make up for what his conception cost us.”

Stan doesn’t even know how to answer this. His father seems incapable of saying anything that isn’t maddening. And that’s what Stan should be – mad. But he’s not. He’s not mad, he’s more…upset. The kind of upset where he feels weighted down by it. Filbrick has pushed his glasses back up and once more seems as insentient as a statue.

Part of Stan wants to leave it here. Wants Filbrick to shut down and be the impenetrable ice wall. His father has never spoken this much to him, never been this straight with him, and Stan fervently wishes that he hadn’t been. Knowing all of this now, having it exposed…he feels wounded. There’s a sucking hole deep in the center of his chest that flashes hot and cold. He feels ill. He _hurts_. But he feels the need to stand up for himself, for Ford, as he whispers weakly, “He won’t…”

“He’ll do it,” Filbrick hisses and it comes out sharp, cutting off any possible retaliation Stan had planned, “He’ll do it, because he _owes_ us and he knows that. Trust me, I drilled that into him. Besides, you should be grateful.”

A strange, strangled noise escapes Stan at that, because the very idea is so ridiculous, so insulting, he can’t believe it was said aloud. But Filbrick looks cool as he explains, “Think of it, Stanley – imagine how he woulda turned out if I hadn’t taken him to task. He would’ve been an arrogant, self-righteous prick. Instead we got something better – you want to talk about other universes? Imagine one where your brother left you high and dry.”

“That would never happen!”

“No, it won’t,” Filbrick purrs, “Because of what I instilled in him, because of what _I_ did. It’s ‘cause of me, he has a sense of obligation! ‘Cause of me, he’s going to do right by the people he owes the most – his parents. Hell, it’s one of the only good things that came outta what you blabbed!”

Stan’s stumped by this until Filbrick mumbles, “Homos can’t make kids – so I don’t have to worry about him having a family. No passing on his freakish, six-digit genes. No worries about anyone else taking our cut. Except you.”

“Me?” Stan squeaks and he’s not sure how much more he can take. All the vitriol this man is spewing is beyond outrageous. Just when Stan thinks he can’t possibly say something else more shocking, Filbrick tops it.

“Yeah, for some god forsaken reason, he’ll take care of you,” Filbrick looks so damned pleased with himself Stan is tempted to punch him again, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Ford and I…we provide for each other.”

“Oh, do you?” the question is asked with such raw disbelief that Stan’s hands tighten back into fists, “Yeah! I help pay the bills! The rent…”

“A rent he wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t got ‘im kicked out of his dorm,” Filbrick interjects smoothly but Stan ignores it, feeling ashamed as he insists, “Ford doesn’t have to do anything for me!”

“Psh! Please,” his father grumbles, “He took you with him. I woulda tossed your ass out on to the street. But ‘cause of him, you’ll be provided for. It’s not like you can make it without him! You’re a loser, plain ‘n simple. Without him, you’d of probably ended up a homeless bum! A shyster running from con to con – hell, you’d probably be in jail! And you better believe neither your mother nor me would've bail you out.”

“Mom would have,” Stan says stringently, “You keep throwing her in with you, but she’s _not_ like you. She didn’t know about what you did!”

“Oh really?” his father’s voice is far too silky, far too sinister, “How much would you like to bet on that?”

Stan feels his throat squeeze and his mother’s face flashes before his eyes as he argues, “No. She-she wouldn’t have let you!”

“I see. You think she’s as clueless as you,” Filbrick says this in the most chiding, patronizing tone possible and Stan’s heart is squeezed so tightly he feels like it’s going to burst, “Don’t misunderstand me – your mother has far more affection for you two than she should. But never forget – _she_ was the one with the scholarship. She was the one who had the most to lose. If you don’t think she’s bitter about that, if you don’t think she’s looking forward to some restitution, then you are in for a very, very rude awakening.”

Stan can’t believe this. He just…he just can’t. And while his father didn’t physically strike him back, Stan feels like he’s been struck repeatedly. More so, when Filbrick really turns the screws, “But, I’ll admit that I find myself in the very odd position of admiring you.”

“What?” Stan breathes out like he’s been socked in the gut, all the air leaving his lungs at those words.

“Well, you’ve proven to be the better son. The one who most resembles me,” Filbrick grins, the action making his face beyond predatory. His actions are more so, as he starts advancing on Stan again, “I’m not just talking about looks, oh no. You have my temperament – that’s been clear for a long time now. You also have my resolution.  You’ve sunk your claws deeper into Ford than anybody. See…he’s like your mother. A shining star with the promise of being something…but then, people like you and me come along – and we drag them down into the dirt with us.”

Spots dance in front of Stan’s eyes and he feels dizzy. He feels like he’s going to faint, because this man is a liar and he’s _wrong_. He’s wrong, he’s wrong, _he’s wrong_. And Stan is _nothing_ like him! He’s not! And too many people have been saying that lately, too many have compared them and it’s not true. It _can’t_ be! And-and his relationship with Ford isn’t like that! Not at all! Not one bit!

But Filbrick’s grin is still in place, the satisfied look of a successful hunter, and Stan realizes his back is against a wall and his father is in his face. He’s close enough that Stan can see through the shades, see the gleam in his eyes and it’s obvious Filbrick is enjoying this. He’s enjoying his son’s unhappiness, his discomfort.

His face is a vicious mask of victory as he murmurs, “It’s the reason I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to suggest you consider moving out. Letting your brother have his own space. After all, that party was ‘cause of you, wasn’t it? You convinced him to go, didn’t you? And look what happened. You were lucky this time – he wasn’t really hurt, but next time…will he be so lucky? Just a thought.”

He pulls away with perfect grace. He turns and starts walking away, something close to a skip in his step as he casually tosses out over his shoulder, “But…I think we both know you won’t leave. After all, _I_ wouldn’t.”

And with that last jab, Filbrick is gone. He walks out of the alley and disappears. But he’s left a trail of destruction in his wake. A powerful impact that’s left Stan standing there, feeling completely hollowed out. Filbrick may’ve never laid a hand on him physically, but verbally? Verbally, Stan’s been torn asunder. He feels weak and he realizes he’s only standing because Filbrick maneuvered him back against the wall of the neighboring building.

He feels the bricks of it roughly scrape at his back as he slumps down until his ass meets the tough concrete. He draws his knees up to his chest as he runs a hand through his hair, knocking his ponytail loose. He tugs at his shaggy hair as his head tips back. He bumps it against the building one time and then again, a little harder. He repeats a mantra in his head about how his father is wrong – how he has no idea what he’s talking about. Clearly he’s insane. Ford loves him, his mother loves him, and how he’s not a leech. He’s not dragging others down with him. How he’s not a screw up or a loser. He’s _not_.

Stan thinks these things over and over again and completely loses track of time. The sun’s starting to set when Shandra opens the door to peek her head out, “Hey? Stanley?”

Her tone is soft. Compassionate. _Shit_. Stan rubs at his face and ignores how its damp. He gets to his feet, voice small, “Oh. Hey, Shandra.”

“Hey.”

“Sorry. I…I know I should be getting back…”

“Don’t worry about it,” she intones gently, “It’s…kind of a slow night, you know? Why don’t you just head on home? Get some rest?”

He breathes in deeply, lets it out loudly, and his hands hide in the back pockets of his jeans as he feels all shades a fool, “You don’t have to do that, Shandra. I can work.”

“Stanley,” she adds with a little steel, sounding more like herself, “Go home. That’s an order.”

“Thought Toby was my boss.” This is a statement more than a question, but she takes on an imperious air as she retorts; “I am too. I’m the shift manager tonight. Now go home.”

“Shandra…”

She walks out fully, letting the door shut behind her. She marches straight up to him and cups his face in her hands. She brushes at his cheeks and Stan realizes they’re damper than he thought. Her expression is one of gentle sympathy, “You want me to stay with you a little longer?”

He does his valiant best to keep himself from crumpling as he nods. She draws him close, giving him a big, warm heartfelt hug. His hands jump out of his pockets as he tugs her close, his grip tight as he’s overcome, gasping out a gruff, “Thank you.”

She hugs back just as tight, “Don’t mention it.”

 

+

 

Ford’s walking slows as he gets closer to the Forcible & Spink Theater house. He agreed to meet Preston out front of this spot on campus because it seemed like neutral ground, not to mention they both know where it is. He’s only talked to him through texts since they agreed to tonight and it’s all been very clipped and dry. Mainly just basics – where to meet, what time, things like that. In fact, Ford’s not even sure where they’re going to eat or if they’re going to do anything after.

As such, he chose to just wear his normal clothes – brown beanie, light grey sweater with white button up beneath and jeans. So, he’s a little thrown when he catches Preston wearing a pretty snazzy suit and tie. Sure, the sleeves of the suit are rolled up – as if to give off a ‘causal’ appearance, but he still looks like a magazine cover model. Northwest is usually impeccably dressed, but this reeks of effort.

He’s also holding bright yellow flowers. There’s only two of them, but between the suit and the flowers, Ford’s starting to get the feeling that Stan might have not been too far off. This might actually be a date. Did he inadvertently agree to go on a date with Preston Northwest? This is pretty much what happened with Stanley too, isn’t it? Why is Ford so bad at these sorts of things? It’s like he’s incapable of picking up on simple signals!

Still, maybe he’s just overreacting? _Yeah, sure. Okay, buddy, whatever you say_ , Ford’s thoughts rumble at him in a pitch perfect imitation of Stan. He swallows and walks over, giving a mild wave, “Uh, hey! Preston!”

Preston, who’d been staring off into space, turns to see Ford and immediately offers a smile, which he then quickly rescinds. It’s as if he’s afraid to offer the expression. Instead he schools his face into something more opaque as Ford walks over. Ford openly looks Preston up and down before stating, “Guess I’m under dressed.”

“No,” Preston says earnestly, “You look…fine. Just fine.”

There’s a beat of awkwardness between them, both unsure of what to say or do next. Preston breaks the moment first, thrusting the flowers forward, “For you.”

Ford’s lips can’t help but twitch as he takes them, his mouth feeling dry, “Thanks! They’re, ah, really pretty.”

He gets a curt nod for this response and Ford brings them up to his nose to take a quick whiff. They smell sweet and he looks them over, “Daffodils?”

“Correct.”

“Uh huh, and what do they mean?”

“They symbolize new beginnings,” Preston explains softly, “I…thought it apt.”

“So, we’re burying the hatchet then?” Ford asks and this has been on his mind more so than the question of whether or not this is a date. Preston looks uncomfortable as he tugs at his collar, “I…suppose. If...if you’re amicable.”

“Well, I was never the one with the problem,” Ford points out archly. Surprisingly, Preston doesn’t argue the statement. Instead he puts his hands into his pockets and shrugs, “Do you wish to know why I brought two flowers instead of one?”

“By all means,” Ford encourages.

“The ancient Greeks believed that the daffodil originated from Narcissus. Do you know who he is?” Once he gets a nod, he presses on, “The flower, in general, is thought to reassure happiness and friendship. However, a single bloom is thought to represent a misfortune – so I made sure to give you two.”

“I see,” Ford looks at the flowers thoughtfully. A flower that came from Narcissus. How appropriate. He almost says it, but doesn’t. Instead he wonders what to do with the flowers until he can put them in water. He doesn’t want to just stuff them in his messenger bag; that would send the wrong message. Not to mention they’re very nice. He reaches up and starts to secure them in the rolled up portion of his beanie, hoping Preston won’t take offence at the idea.

Clearly he doesn’t, because he actually reaches out and assists Ford with the effort – the hints of a smile about him the whole time. Eventually they both stop fussing and Ford’s eyes roll upwards, trying to catch a glimpse, “How do I look?”

“Good,” Preston breathes, “Great.”

“Awesome,” Ford beams and they stand there, sort of awkward again. Preston clears his throat, “I, um, made us reservations at Medi. Have you heard of it?”

A head shake and Preston sighs, “It’s a high end Mediterranean pop up over on Wilshire. I think it’s black tie, but I’m sure I can get them to make an exception. Or,” he reaches into his own bag, “I should have an emergency tie on me…”

“Preston, it’s fine,” Ford argues, but Preston keeps searching, mumbling under his breath about how if he doesn’t have it, he’ll be so embarrassed. Ford finds this hilarious. Who on earth carries around emergency ties? Still, Preston’s worries are oddly endearing. And also questionable. Ford knows the best approach is probably the direct one, so as much as it embarrasses him, he makes himself ask, “Preston?”

“Hmm?” Preston returns, still focused on rooting through his bag.

“Is…this is a date?”

Preston drops his bag at the same time his mouth drops open. He blinks several times, lips flapping silently before he starts waving his hands, “Wh-wh-what?! N-n-no! Of-of-course not!”

Ford’s positive he’s never heard Northwest stutter so much. Granted, it’s not like they’ve spoken often, but he’s pretty sure these sort of verbal hiccups are not the norm for him. Nor is the bright scarlet that’s taken his complexion, “I-I-I’m not gay, Pines! I’m a Northwest! On a scale from zero to gay, I’m zero. Totally zero! The most zero that has-has EVER zeroed! I am the complete and total opposite of gay!”

“So, straight?” Ford asks with some amusement, eyebrows raised because Preston doesn’t seem so much offended by the suggestion as stunned by it.

“Yes! That’s it – that’s…the word,” He picks up his bag and continues to look squirrely, “I dated Shandra and before her I was with Patricia, Carrie, Mary Ann-!”

“I get it, I get it,” Ford assures him but Preston just continues, “Not that there’s anything wrong with it! Gayness, I mean! I’ve-I’ve known a lot of homosexuals! One of the many gardeners I had growing up was gay. He’s no longer in my father’s employ, and I haven’t seen him in years, but-but that’s not the reason! I mean, that’s certainly not the reason my father fired him!”

 _Oh no_? Ford thinks and suddenly he sees a chink in the armor. Preston had made light reference to the fact that his own father is domineering. What was it he’d said? He isn’t gay, because he’s a Northwest? Ford finds that particularly interesting. He wonders what, exactly; Preston Northwest’s father is like. But he knows now is not the time to ask, so he says gently, “Preston, it’s okay. Relax.”

Preston takes in several deep breaths before puffing them out, eyes shifting about, “I-I take it that you are…that you’re-um?”

“Gay?”

Preston nods and Ford lifts one shoulder, “Yeah. Basically. I mean, I’ve found women attractive, but I’ve never dated one. I don’t think I will, but that’s not to say it’s not impossible. Just like it’s not impossible for me to become involved with some agender, but I think I’d have to be emotionally attached to them first before I’d consider… look, I’m going off on a tangent. Point is; you know sexuality is an open spectrum, right? There’s not just straight, gay, and bisexual?”

“Yes! Of course, I know that! I’m not stupid!” the words are spit out with some scorn, but now that Ford’s seen through him more than once, it’s that much easier to peek past the walls he’s built up. It’s clear Preston _didn’t_ know that. In fact, his eyes are back on Ford’s – clear and slightly curious. It’s like he wants to ask, but won’t – or maybe it’s better to say he _can’t_.

He can’t, because he doesn’t want to reveal he doesn’t know. Perhaps he views it as a weakness or a defect to not know, like he’s failing in some way. Ford’s heart pangs with sympathy for him. Sympathy. For Preston Northwest. Wonders will never cease. Ford gives him a warm smile and pats his shoulder, “Okay. Well, glad we cleared things up. Not a date. Just two guys grabbing a bite. You have any luck finding a tie?”

Preston scowls at his bag, “No, but it doesn’t matter! We will simply go there and I shall demand we be seated! No one turns away Preston Northwest! No matter how shabbily his friend is dressed!”

“Uh, I thought you said I looked good?” Ford returns and it’s like Preston cracks, his self-righteous expression giving way to one of pure horror. It’s actually super funny to watch. Preston looks so instantly remorseful that Ford can’t help laughing, “Dude, it’s cool. Don’t worry about it – I’m just messin’ with you.”

“Messing…with?” Preston parrots the words as if this concept is completely new to him. Yet again, Ford feels that pang. Has he never had any friends to joke around with him? Which brings to mind the next question, “So, I’m your friend, huh?”

“I-? What?”

“You said no matter how shabbily your friend is dressed. Which would make me your-”

“My lord, Pines! Stop this – this ‘messing’ with me! It’s not very sporting of you!” he snaps, “Yes, I referred to you as a friend! This entire evening is predicated upon the idea that we are trying to form an association, but if you merely met with me to play games-!”

“I didn’t,” Ford swears, “Look; I really do want to have dinner with you, Preston. But maybe we should try somewhere else? I don’t want you barging into some place throwing your weight around just for my sake.”

Preston puts his bag back over one shoulder and looks reasonably mollified, “Very well. But then, where shall we dine?”

 

+

 

Preston looks so out of place in the Diner that Ford has to keep biting his lips to keep from laughing. He doesn’t want Northwest to think he’s playing some trick on him, but it’s just…he looks so out of his element. He keeps shifting about in their booth, as if he’s afraid that if he sits still for too long he’ll be infected with something. He also keeps eyeing the other diners like they’re particularly interesting exhibits – whether at an art gallery or a zoo, Ford would be hard pressed to say. Probably zoo.

But he’s taking it with a stride Ford finds impressive. After all, he didn’t refuse to come in when Ford brought them here. He didn’t even say something snide about his choice of eatery. Instead he wandered in and has since done his steadfast to, as Stan would no doubt put it, ‘be a trooper’. Honestly, Ford wouldn’t be surprised if Preston has nightmares about this later. The thought makes him smirk as he eyes the menu.

It’s a shame Susan’s off tonight. She normally has the best suggestions for choice of meals and frankly, it would be a good thing to have access to this evening. Mainly for Preston’s sake. He’s covered his hands with several squirts of antibacterial gel he procured from his bag before touching the menu and he gingerly turns each of the pages, “So, what’s…good here?”

“Good?”

“Appetizing,” he then adds in a mumble, “Edible.”

Ford snorts, “Everything is edible, but there are some things I like more than others. What do you typically eat?”

“Well, I love skate with braised tomato lentils, citrus fennel salad, Sicilian-style stuffed squid, homemade ramen with sweet glazed pork belly and watermelon…” he stops when he sees Ford wide eyes and he looks chagrinned, “I…take it that’s the wrong answer?”

He can’t help it anymore. Ford laughs. He buries his face in his hands and just laughs. Preston crosses his arms and slouches slightly, finally relaxing albeit unconsciously, “It’s not funny!”

“N-no, _aha_! It’s-it’s not…it’s just…man,” Ford wipes at his eyes, “I never expected…most people say, like, spaghetti or something. Your answer…wow, I just…that’s awesome! And oh boy, all of that – it sounds so good! I’m amazed you’re not like, a million pounds!”

Coming to the conclusion that Ford is not making fun of him, Preston smiles a little, “I have a personal trainer.”

“Of course you do,” Ford chuckles and he shakes his head, “Me? I like the roast beef sandwich.”

“Roast beef sandwich?” Preston looks at the menu again, obviously trying to find the item as Ford nods, “They also have a great Cobb salad. And the vegetable soup. Oh, or the meatloaf! Stan’s a big fan of that!”

“Speaking of Stanley,” Preston murmurs, dropping the menu and linking his fingers together, “You and your brother – how long has that been going on?”

Ford frowns, misunderstanding the question, “I don’t know – our whole lives?”

“You were involved as children?!” Preston’s scandalized tone clarifies the question for Ford and he gasps, “Oh! You mean – no! No, Preston, we’re-we’re not involved! Not like that.”

It’s an outright lie and Ford doesn’t think Preston buys it, because he looks very unconvinced. Thankfully Bud Gleeful saunters over, “Well, howdy there and what might I get you fine gents this evenin’?”

“I’ll take a coke and a bacon cheeseburger with fries,” Ford offers and as Bud tells him what a great choice he’s made, he turns his attentions to Preston, who looks sort of lost. Preston licks his lips and squints at the menu, “What sort of drinks do you offer?”

“Coca Cola products, juice, tea, coffee, water,” Bud starts ticking off and Preston stops him there, “What kind of water?”

“Excuse me, son, but I don’t take your meaning.”

“What I am asking is, do you offer different kinds of water and, if so, which might be available? Perhaps, spring water? Mountain? Sparkling? Vitamin?” At Bud’s continued lost look, Preston shivers, “It’s-it’s tap water, isn’t it?”

“Uh, well…it does indeed come out a spigot, if that’s what you mean. The soda machine…” Bud’s words end as Preston waves his hands, his face turning slightly pale. He pushes the menu away him, looking close to distraught as Ford bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh again; “Is there anything else you might like, Preston?”

“Well, since I highly doubt this establishment offers any organic juice mixes, I guess I’ll try my hand at the tea. Black leaf, cold brewed.”

The look Bud shoots Ford clearly asks ‘is this guy for real?’ and Ford merely sighs, smirking as he takes his menu and Preston’s, handing them over. Bud takes them as Ford offers, “So, he’ll have the tea. Unsweetened I take it?”

“Actually I prefer sweet.”

“Really?”

This gets a nod, “Two lumps sugar, please.”

Ford can’t stop the laugh this time, “Okay, two sugars. And to eat?”

“I…take it the meat featured in your roast beef sandwich was not grass fed?”

“Not that I know of, no,” Ford continues to chuckle and while Preston looks put out, he manages to drum up a smile, “I see. But since you suggested it, I shall endeavor to enjoy it!”

“Cool,” Ford beams, “You got that Bud?”

“I…guess,” Bud backs away slowly, eyeing Preston as if he’s an oddity. Ford is having a hard time not being amused when it dawns on him that he’s actually having a fantastic time. And with Preston of all people. Who knew?

Eventually Bud returns with their drinks and two paper wrapped straws. Ford rips the tip off one end of his straw and then, for the heck of it, he blows on the uncovered end, sending the wrapping paper flying at Preston. It lands in his hair and sticks there. Preston looks straight at him, gray eyes wide, and it’s clear no one has ever dared do such a thing to him. Ford grins and leans over, “Here, let me get it.”

His fingers momentarily play in Preston’s thick mane of dark brown, close to black, hair and his eyebrows draw together, “Do you have product in your hair?”

Preston, who is currently the color of a ripe strawberry, flaps both hands distractedly in Ford’s direction, “Yes, if you must know!”

Ford, not deterred by Preston’s attempts to chase him away, merely snaps up the wrapper and pulls away to crumple it in his hands, “Huh, couldn’t tell. Guess you’re going for that whole artfully-tousled thing.”

“Are you implying I take great strides to make my hair look good?”

“Do you?”

Preston pouts, “There’s nothing wrong with looking your best.”

“I usually don’t bother,” Ford returns smartly, “That’s what the hat’s for.”

“Hmm, yes, it’s obvious you don’t put much thought into your appearance,” this is said without malice. If anything, it has a sense of teasing and Ford’s pleased to hear it. Clearly Preston is capable of relaxing, even if marginally. Gradually their conversation turns to other things – school, shared teachers, and classes. When Bud comes back with their meals, Ford’s so hungry he tears into his burger without much thought. It takes him a while to realize Preston hasn’t touched his sandwich.

Alternatively, he’s taken to poking at it with his fork, as if it’s a particularly revolting science project. He takes his knife and cuts into it, working away a tiny wedge. He spears it with his fork and brings it up to his eyes for inspection. Once more, Ford finds himself highly entertained, “You shouldn’t play with your food.”

“I’m not playing with it. I’m…questioning its integrity.”

“Aw, c’mon – one bite. You might like it!”

“But it’s…so greasy.”

“You liked the tea, right?”

“It’s adequate. I highly doubt its black leaf though. And I think he used sugar packets instead of lumps!” The way he says this immediately strikes Ford as that of a southern belle attitude, like Scarlet O’Hara. Does this make him Rhett Butler? He could tell Preston he doesn’t give a damn, but he doesn’t want to give him the impression that he’s going to take him up in his arms bridal style. That’s more something he’d be fonder of doing with Stanley. But then, Stan’s the complete opposite of Preston – he’s not so much a character from ‘Gone with the Wind’ as something rougher, maybe Jean Valjean from Les Misérables?

He shakes his head to himself, “Just try one bite.”

Preston looks doubtful, so Ford jokes, “What? You want me to feed it to you?”

Preston sits up right and gulps, coloring. He grumbles out a shaky ‘no’ and pops the bit of sandwich into his mouth, chewing it with great exaggeration. Slowly his face melts as the taste hits him, “Oh…my. This…this is quite delicious!”

“See? Told you!” Ford boasts and Preston cuts off another piece, which gets him another eye roll. He stops his actions, “What?”

“It’s just…you know you can pick up the sandwich and eat it, right?”

“With my hands?!” Preston inhales and Ford takes another bite of his burger as if to demonstrate, before answering with his mouth half full, “Yeah!”

“But…you want me to-to touch my food? Like some sort of peasant?”

“My offer to feed you still stands.”

Preston stares at him defiantly as he picks up the sandwich. He takes a big, healthy bite and yet again his features dissolve into pleasure. They eat in silence and once done, Preston makes sure to hit up his antibacterial again – he offers some to Ford but Ford declines it. A child in a nearby booth is screaming his head off and Preston lets out a pained sigh, “That is quite the opus to end our meal.”

“Eh, kids cry. It’s a fact of life.”

“Hmm, I just don’t understand why the child’s parents haven’t used a bell.”

“Bell?”

“Of course,” Preston says as if this is common knowledge, “Though to be truthful, I have only seen a handful of parents use it and most of them have been of my family’s personal acquaintance – the Bluffs, the Coopers, the Lodges. My father was a big proponent of its use in almost any given situation where I was being insubordinate. I don’t know if I myself will…what’s wrong?”

“Your father…rang a bell whenever you cried?” Ford asks and Preston merely shrugs, “Yes, naturally. It stopped me from doing so. And as I said, he would also do it were I engaging in activities he did not approve. Playing in the dirt or speaking when I wasn’t spoken to – you know; things I did when I was younger, before I knew better.”

Ford absorbs this quietly, some of his good mood dimming, but Preston seems oblivious to it. Or, possibly, he’s just ignoring it, “My father did it and his father before him. The bell is a family honored tradition that teaches children their place. I responded to it without hesitation.”

“And your mother was okay with that?”

“I wouldn’t know; I never met her. She died giving birth to me,” Preston says this so casually, but Ford feels an immediate stab of empathy, “Oh, I’m-I’m sorry.”

“Her name was Anneliese Van Pelt,” Preston supplies in the same voice, as if the apology wasn’t even offered, “Her family was deeply invested in precious gems and stones – diamonds, rubies, sapphires– things of that nature. But they also had their hand in other wealthy endeavors. The uniting of the Northwests and the Van Pelts was near predestined, but it was liable my father would have married her regardless. She was considered quite the beauty in the upper circle. Would you like to see?”

He pulls out his phone even as Ford nods. He taps the screen a couple of times before turning it so Ford can see. To Ford’s surprise it’s not a photo, but a very detailed portrait. The woman in the picture looks like a porcelain doll - her eyes are extremely large, her nose a sharp little point and her mouth a perfect heart-shape. Her long, dark hair is piled up high and she’s wearing an evening gown, several jewels gathered at her throat. Ford looks back up at Preston, “She’s beautiful. You have her eyes.”

“Yes,” Preston flinches at this pronouncement, “I’ve…heard that before.”

He draws the phone back and slides his fingers across it before turning it again, “That’s the painting we have hanging in the mansion stairwell. Here’s an actual picture of her with and my father.”

This picture isn’t very different from the portrait as far as Ford can see. Mrs. Northwest still carries the same dainty looks, but with a hint of a smile this time, as if she has a secret. Preston’s father is a different story. Apparently Preston hadn’t been lying when he’d said his father also possessed a stern disposition. Ford can see several markers in the man’s face that remind him of his father’s. For one thing, they both carried the disposition of someone who never smiles.

Mr. Northwest looks as if he’d been carved from marble. His hair shockingly blonde – bordering on white. His eyes are blue, but so light as to seem almost colorless. And they are very, very cold. His jawline and general build are similar to that of Preston’s and it’s easy to see how the two together had produced him.

Preston pulls away his phone and starts putting it back in his bag as Ford murmurs, “He’s very…composed. Looks slightly familiar too. Probably because my dad has similar...”

“No, you’ve met him,” Preston interrupts coolly and Ford’s head rears back, “I have?”

Preston nods as he finishes with his bag, “Yes. You might not remember, it was a while ago. In truth, it was back when we first met. At the Dean’s introductory mixer for highly accredited students.”

Ford tries to recall that evening but Preston’s right – it was so long ago. It wasn’t even that far into his first semester and he’d only gone because Fidds was attending as well. He remembered thinking that at least he’d have someone to talk to. And Stan was working an overnight job – though he had begged Ford to, quote, ‘snag him some of those fancy appetizers’. Which Ford had done. His bag smelled of caviar and cocktail wieners for weeks.

But he doesn’t remember meeting Mr. Northwest at all. Preston, however, seems to have it burned into his memory, “You were wearing something quite similar to your current getup. My father, Josiah, sort of stuck his nose up at you until the Dean brought you over and forced an introduction.”

Ford’s eyes narrow as he tries to concentrate, tries to remember. He vaguely recalls the Dean putting a hand to his shoulder – Ford remembers this specifically because he’d just wrapped two cucumber sandwiches in napkins and snuck them into his bag. He’d been terrified he’d been caught. But the Dean merely wanted to escort him about. He recalls meeting a blonde woman who worked for him, a couple of teachers, and then…

He snaps his fingers, “He was the one who asked about my field of study!”

“That’s right,” Preston sighs, “You told him you were uncertain as of yet. That you had many fields of interest and that you hoped to earn more than one PhD. Then you began blathering on about astrophysics.”

“That’s right! I remember because he actually seemed interested!”

“He wasn’t,” Preston returns flatly, “Not really. Or, to be more accurate, he wasn’t interested in the astrophysics. He was interested in you.”

This makes Ford visibly blink several times as he tries to comprehend what that means. Preston has no trouble explaining, “Your passion, your knowledge. He admired it. I think, aside from what he would view as a few personal defects, he would be quite proud to have you as a son.”

The words come out bitter and suddenly Ford has a revelation. This is why Preston has always had such a problem with him. Ford got Mr. Northwest’s approval so easily. He doubts the same can be said for Preston and as if to add more fuel to the fire, he tags on, “Not to mention you wouldn’t wish to waste your time on a pointless field such as botany.”

“Preston…”

“She loved flowers.”

Ford’s thrown for a loop but Preston clues him back in, “My mother. While I never met her, it was my understanding she loved them. She’s the one who commissioned our gardens. The hedge maze, the rows of apple and cherry trees on the estate, the hothouse. She made sure they were all well maintained. She told my father she enjoyed delicate, fragile things. That they reminded her of herself. Sadly, this proved to be quite true considering she did not survive my delivery.”

He has a faraway look in his eyes, “All the money in the world, the best medical science money can buy…but she just…didn’t make it. It’s rare, you know, to pass from that. Or at least, it’s rare in this day and age; especially if you have our family’s resources but it just…it didn’t matter. I made it and she didn’t.”

Ford’s not even aware that he’s covered one of Preston’s hands with his own until Preston looks down at it. Ford pulls the hand back, looking sheepish but Preston merely shakes his head, “Still…we’ve gotten off topic. My point is, my father used the bell in his rearing of me and I responded well to it. So, I question why more people don’t use this method.”

It’s not a question Ford wants to ask, but it comes out anyway, “Does he use it now?”

“No. He doesn’t need to,” Preston says but his voice is…off. He’s clearly not telling the truth and Ford’s heart goes out to him. He wants to ask Preston more about it, but he doesn’t want to pry. He, more than anyone, understands how hard it is to discuss something like this. So, instead, he sits there silently and waits for Preston to offer a change of subject. It’s what Ford would do, if he were in Preston’s situation.

Sure enough, he gets a more hardy, “Do you think I would look good with a mustache?”

“A mustache?”

He gets a nod and Preston runs a finger over his lip, “I’ve been thinking of growing one. I believe it will give me a more distinguished air.”

“I think it’ll give you a Tom Selleck air.”

This gets him a scowl and Ford feels the air lighten, “Stan’s always asking things like that. He thinks about changing his look up a lot. Getting a beard or a piercing. Right now he’s set on a tattoo.”

Preston crosses his arms and eyes Ford critically, “What exactly do you see in him?”

“Who?”

His eyes roll upwards, “Stanley.”

The question is so unexpected Ford’s whole brain stalls over it. Preston, misreading him, replies, “I am not trying to pick a fight with you. I am honestly asking because I don’t…see it. He seems lacking in any admirable qualities.”

“Well…what do you consider admirable?”

“Intelligence, wealth, good breeding.”

“I take it I only carry the first?”

Preston looks unhappy, “Initially I would’ve said so, but having spent some time with you this evening you have other…notable traits.”

“Such as?”

“I…it’s hard to define,” Preston grouses, “They’re words I have had very little reason to put stock into. I…I guess one of them would be…compassion?”

“You don’t put stock in compassion?” Ford asks and if anything Preston looks more disgruntled. It’s obvious this is not something he really wants to discuss, but considering he brought it up, he seems to feel like he’s trapped in it. Ford rubs at his eyes and lets out a loud breath, “Okay, look…your upbringing was very different from ours. You grew up in a different world than we did, one of privilege and money. You had, and continue to have, a lot. But there are some things you evidently missed out on and without them, you don’t see their value.”

“Such as?”

“Well, camaraderie for one thing. Remember, Stan and I are twins. We were born together, so we’ve always had one another. For another, while we look similar and can even sometimes act similar, we are very different, but in the best of ways. Stanley is…”

Ford trails off and he’s pretty sure his face is taking on a dreamy quality as he talks about it, “Stanley is sweet. And warm. And funny, he’s really funny. But the best thing is, is that he’s loyal. He’ll always be there for me, he always has my back. He has very strong feelings about family, which is ironic considering our own upbringing, which was less than pleasant.”

“Stan puts a lot of value in what you do too – he wants to be wealthy someday and I think he sometimes laments not being a genius like I am, but he _is_ smart. He’s just a different kind of smart. He’s street smart and sometimes that’s better. It certainly has its advantages,” he grows silent for a moment, pensive as his mind runs over his brother, “He can also be surprisingly gentle…tender. Loving.”

“Is that why you’re with him?”

“Yes.”

“HA!” Preston smacks his hands loudly on the table and Ford jumps, startled, as Preston jabs a finger in his direction, “I knew it! You two ARE involved! You’re dating your own twin brother!”

All the color drains out of Ford. He feels everything in his body start to pool around his feet but Preston, seeing his distress, lets out a huff, “Oh come, come, Fordsy! I have no qualms about it!”

Everything that was draining out of Ford floods right back in, his chest and face hot, as he gives an inelegant, “Huh?”

“Well, I was the one to point it out to you in the first place, wasn’t I?” Preston gloats, “I merely enjoy being right!”

“So you’re not…like, disgusted?”

“As much as it would shame my father to hear it – no, I am not,” Preston concedes, “I may have, and probably will, continue to give you grief over it, but now that I know you better…I…find it hard to think less of you.”

Ford’s smile is so big it hurts his face and Preston mirrors it, looking bashful as he admits, “Besides, very, very, very early in our history - the Northwest’s encouraged such behaviors. They wanted to keep the bloodline pure – like the royalty of old. I think this is why one of my ancestors was a waste shoveling village idiot.”

“Holy shit – really?” Ford laughs and Preston laughs too, nodding, “Yes. My father has done his utmost to bury that little chestnut.”

“But you always talk about how your family history is so illustrious!”

“And it is! But,” he shrugs, “The expression ‘skeleton in the closet’ exists for a reason…mainly because that ancestor died in a closet.”

“Oh shut up!” Ford snickers and he lightly shoves at Preston’s shoulder and Preston looks beyond pleased at the reaction. Ford finds that he really is starting to like him. The idea of their becoming friends doesn’t seem so far fetched now and when they eventually finish up dinner and part ways he promises to text him later.

He has a notable skip to his step as he goes home, his heart light, thoughts cheerful. He’s looking forward to telling Stanley all about his time out when he enters the apartment to find that Stan is there waiting for him. The apartment has an entirely different feel to it and Ford frowns, slowly descending from his high. Stan has a fully stuffed duffle bag waiting by his feet. Ford eyes it curiously, “Hey…”

“Hey,” Stan returns and his hands are buried deep in his pockets. He doesn’t meet Ford’s eyes, his tone dead, “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Yeah, guess that’s a recurring theme,” he points to the bag, “What’s that?”

Stan shifts on his feet and continues to not meet his eyes, “Sixer…I’m moving out.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sex, incest, mentions of past child abuse

“Wait, what? Why?” Ford breathes the words in such an injured tone that Stanley’s tempted to look at him. But he can’t. He knows if he looks up, if he looks into his brother’s eyes, he’ll be lost. So instead he keeps his attention focused on their feet.

He’s wearing the same grimy white converse he always wears. Ford has a matching pair in dark blue, but they look nicer, cleaner. Stan’s shoelaces are clumsily tied, inked in dirt. Ford’s are knotted with precision, bright white. It’s like the perfect representation of them as people. One is well put together, one is a mess. He closes his eyes a moment before finally sighing deeply and reaching down. He grips his duffle bag, throws the strap over one shoulder as he moves towards the front door, still avoiding his brother’s face, “I gotta go.”

“No,” Ford insists and he takes a firm hold of the bag’s handle, halting him, “You don’t.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Stanford…”

“No, Stanley, you’re not leaving, we’re not doing this. Not again,” Ford’s voice is firm and he releases the bag to go to the door, blocking it with his body and Stan feels so goddamn tired. He doesn’t want to do this. Dammit, why couldn’t Ford have just stayed out a few extra minutes longer? Stan planned everything out perfectly – go home, pack, leave before Sixer gets home, text him later. Not that a text is the best way to handle this, but what the hell else is he supposed to do? Write an e-mail? Leave a voicemail? He can’t talk to him, can’t look at him, because if he does…

And clearly Ford knows this, because even though Stan has had yet to look at him, he just knows his brother’s expression is probably resolute. Arms crossed, full weight jammed against the door as he pleads his case, “We did this at the party, we did this when mom and dad came…we keep running away from one another, not talking to each other. We can’t keep doing that. Not anymore. No matter how much neither of us wants to, we have to. We owe it to one another. We owe it to…to whatever is happening between us.”

“What _is_ happening between us?” Stan asks quietly and he can actually _feel_ Ford stand up straighter. Can feel that mirrored sensation of breathlessness, chests tight, hearts pounding as he gasps, “Why did you bring me with you?”

When his brother doesn’t answer right away, he elaborates, “Out here. To California. Why did you bring me?”

Again, no instant response and it just sets Stan’s teeth on edge, his father’s words rolling around in his mind, “Is it…is it because you feel like you owe me? Like it’s an obligation? Or did you...no, _do_ you feel like I can’t make it without you? Like you need to take care of me?”

“How can you even ask me that?” If he thought Ford sounded injured earlier, it’s nothing compared to now. Ford sounds so hurt; it’s as if Stan’s actually struck him. Stan knows the feeling. His father delivered several verbal blows earlier. Maybe that shouldn’t be a shock. After all, he and his father are so very similar, aren’t they?

He’s tried so hard to deny it, but the more he’s had time to think about it, the more he’s come to the disturbing conclusion that it’s true. He and his father share so many similarities – their desires for wealth, their jawlines and cheekbones, their fits of anger and repressed sorrow, their unending disappointment with their lives and what they have to offer. They both hurt Ford and they keep on hurting him.

Stanley can’t stand it – can’t stand the idea of continually hurting his twin, of draining him. What was it their father said? Dragging him down into the dirt? Stan returned home, looked around their tiny, shitty apartment and came to the conclusion that it’s very true. Yes, it wasn’t like Ford’s dorm was a paradise, but it was certainly nicer. It wasn’t in a crappy neighborhood, in a crappy building that only has working utilities half the time.

Then there’s the money they have to earn. Only a few weeks ago Stan was boasting about how much he provides, but frankly Ford wouldn’t need it if he hadn’t interfered. And then there’s the even more bitter implication that Ford feels like he _has_ to do all of this. Like he has to take care of Stanley - watch over him, provide for him. Like he has no choice.

Maybe that’s the way it’s always been and Stan was just too self-centered to see it. God, for all he knows, Ford is only reciprocating his feelings because he feels like that’s what he _should_ do. That it’s not actually what he wants; it’s what he _thinks_ he should want. Just like how he thinks he should be nice to Pops, respect him.

All of this cycles around in Stan’s mind – horrible and upsetting as Ford asks, “Stanley, what brought all this on?”

“Pops…”

“Fuck!” The curse cuts off Stan’s explanation and Ford grumbles, “Stanley, please look at me.”

“No.”

“Stanley…”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Stan’s silent for so long that he can feel Ford’s restlessness. He knows his brother is about to ask again when he finally confesses, “Because if I do, I won’t be able to leave.”

“Good! That’s what I want!” Ford reaches out and takes the duffle bag from Stan’s shoulder, tossing it away. He takes Stan’s face in his hands and tries to turn it up, tries to physically get Stan to meet his eyes. But while Stan let Ford take the bag, he’s more resistant to this second tactic. He turns his head this way and that, rigidly refusing and Ford lets out an annoyed whine, finally going for broke and just taking Stan’s mouth with his.

The angle is awkward, but it doesn’t matter. Their lips meeting is just as devastating as if their gazes had met. Stan lets out a pained whimper, his hands curling into fists, knocking roughly against his legs because he wants to clutch Ford to him, he wants to kiss him back, but he refuses to do so. He needs to stop this; needs to shut this down. He has to pull away from Ford, get his bag and go.

Even if he has to run, even if he has to get forceful. He can’t let this happen, he can’t be weak. He knew this would be hard to begin with, but he has to do it because his father’s words keep echoing back to him: _We both know you won’t leave. After all, I wouldn’t._ Stan wants him to be wrong. He _needs_ him to be wrong. But Ford is making it impossible for him to go. He can’t follow through with his plans with his brother kissing him like this, so Stan finally uncurls his fingers, raises them up to push Ford away – hands firm but gentle on his shoulders.

Yet somehow, Ford seems to sense his intentions and his own hands work their way up into Stan’s hair, tangling in the long, thick locks and tugging back hard. Stan lets out a hiss because it hurts, strands yanked between all twelve fingers, but Ford doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he seems further motivated to keep kissing Stan – the opening of Stan’s mouth allowing him deeper access.  Ford’s tongue plunges inside, searching every inch of him, dancing temptingly over Stan’s own inert one.

Finally Stan finds some willpower within himself to ease Ford away, voice ragged, “So, is this all it is to you? Just sex?”

He delivers the barbs in hopes of throwing Ford off. He wants to make him angry so that he’ll let him go, so that he’ll tell him to get out and leave. Instead he gets, “No. You know better than that.”

Does he? Stan’s prepared to say this when Ford hisses, “Stanley Pines – look at me.”

The tone is commanding, serious, and Stan can’t fight it anymore. He finally looks up, finally meets Ford’s eyes and he hates himself because he can barely see, a haze of tears clouding his vision. He rapidly blinks them away, refusing to cry because he’s not a damned sissy! He’s a grown man and he can’t fucking cry about this. Besides, it’s such a stupid thing to cry over! He needs to man up, so he resolutely pushes away his feelings – all of them.

He tries to wrap himself up in a protective shell, become stone. Ford, for his part, looks just as perfect as always. Vulnerable, but strong – touchable, yet far from his grasp. Stan’s always been so attracted to him because of this – his approachable, yet aloof nature. His constant state of duality. And his brother’s eyes are so steady, so warm as he asks, “What’d Dad say to you?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Stanley...”

“I just said I don’t wanna talk about it!” Stan grinds out, putting hefty weight behind the words because he really _doesn’t_ want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to repeat the awful, hurtful things the man said. Not just because repeating them hurts Stan, but because they have the capability of hurting Ford as well. He can’t look his brother in the eyes and tell him that their father thinks of him as a mistake, as a physical embodiment of everything that’s ever gone wrong in his and his mother’s life.

How can he do that? How can Stan tell Ford such cruel things? And what about how Pops thinks Ford owes him? How he expected Ford to pay him back for his birth? Pay both of them back, mother and father, and Stan doesn’t want to believe that their mother could be capable of something so ugly. She always hugged them, kissed them. She might’ve never showered them in love but surely, surely…

But that’s the thing. He’s _not_ sure. He doesn’t have the faith he knows he should. Most people never question this – they trust in their parents’ unconditional love. But Stanley can’t and what’s worse – he can’t trust in Ford’s. He wants to, so fucking much, but after what their father told him…maybe Ford just _feels_ like he should become involved with Stanley, maybe he’s manipulated him into this.

Does Ford love him? Could he possibly? And if he does – if he says ‘yes’, how can Stan ever truly believe him? There’s no way to actually prove love, is there? And Stan’s too scared to ask, too terrified of the answer. So he wants to leave. He wants to do just what Ford said – run. He’d rather run than talk about this. And then he notices the flowers in Ford’s hat.

He eyes the two bright yellow buds and reaches up, carefully pulling them from the folds of his brother’s beanie. Ford looks at them and gives a helpless shrug, “They’re from Preston.”

Stan’s hand tightens on the stems, crushing them, ‘’Course they are.”

“It’s not what you think, Stan,” Ford argues, “I asked him directly if it was a date and he said no. The flowers are just a friendship thing.”

“Friendship flowers. Okay. Sure. Whatever,” Stan grumbles and he tosses the flowers aside. Ford lets out an aborted little ‘Hey!’ and goes to grab them. Stan sees his chance to escape, the door unguarded, but Ford’s quicker than he looks. He snatches the flowers up and sets them on the nearby coffee table before diving back at the door. Stan’s barely turned the knob before Ford’s on it, pushing it shut and grabbing at him, “No! You’re not going!”

“The hell I am!”

“Stan, whatever Dad said – you can tell me, alright? I-I told you about some of the stuff he did to me. It was hard, but I did it! You can tell me-!”

“Tell you what?!” Stan snaps, “How I’m leeching off of you! Or how about how I’m just some loser! Some screw up whose brains ain’t good for nothing!”

“He-he said that to you?”

“You’re _surprised_?” Stan nearly shouts, because Ford’s words have an air of astonishment to them, like he can’t believe their father would ever say such a thing and this only serves to make him furious, “How can you be shocked that the man who _beat_ you would say that kinda crap to me?! Or is it because you think he’s right and I’m-!”

“Of course he’s not right!” Ford cuts in hotly, “I don’t think that, Stanley! You know I don’t! I brought you out here because I _wanted_ you with me. Don’t you remember? Wherever we go, we go together? More ‘we’ than ‘I’? I couldn’t leave you in Jersey and not just because I didn’t want to leave you alone with him. I wanted you with me, I needed you – I still do and that’s why you can’t go!”

Stan’s been violently shaking his head throughout all of this and the treacherous tears are trying to return, “I have to, Ford. I gotta get as far away from you as I can, ‘cause there’s more to it than that. More to it than that lil’ bit I just told you, I’m – don’tcha see that I’m no good for you? I’m no good for anybody! And this thing between us – whatever the hell it is – it’s just gonna get more complicated. You’d be better off if I was long gone and-!”

“ _No_!” the word is practically a bellow and Ford tugs him close, captures his mouth again and then pulls away just enough so they can look deeply into each other’s eyes as he breathes against his lips, “If words can’t convince you…let me show you, Stanley. Show you how much I need you, how much I want you. Let me prove it to you…”

“Fo- _mmpf_!” Stan doesn’t get out his name because Ford is kissing him again, hands gripping his arms tight and Stan doesn’t kiss back, but it doesn’t matter to Ford. He just keeps on, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him. He has their mouths pressed together and he works feverishly, trying to get a response from Stanley, trying to melt him and it’s as if their roles have reversed. Ford fire, Stanley ice. Ford is trying to catch a spark on something frozen, but he’s determined and Stan feels his resistance waver.

He knows what he should do. He knows the _right_ thing to do. But…it’s Ford. It’s _Ford_. The person he loves more than anything. He would do anything for him – _anything_. And what can it hurt? Just one more time, right? The memories will keep him afloat, they’ll sustain him - comfort him when he’s alone. And it’s a good distraction, a good move…just get him to think he’s won for now…

Stan melts that little bit, kisses back a fraction and Ford moans, “Yes…that’s right, that’s good. Just stay, stay with me…”

The kissing becomes less one sided as Stan’s tongue finally comes to life, pushing against his twin’s, stroking it. The room fills with the wet, slick sounds of their lips playing against one another and a bitter part of Stan wishes it wasn’t so good. He wishes he didn’t get shivers down his spine, wishes his pulse didn’t jump and his heart rate quicken. But each and every time, this is what happens. Maybe if it wasn’t so good, so sweet, it would be easier to let this go. But every time they come together – it’s like this. Just fucking immaculate.

Ford draws his lips from Stanley’s and Stan feels himself follow, lips still seeking his twins but Ford just shushes him and, with far more smoothness than Stan thought his brother capable of, he bends down and scoops Stan up into his arms. He picks him up. He picks him up fucking _bridal_ style. And Stan’s helpless; he can do nothing but loop his arms around Ford’s neck and let it happen. He’s in his arms and totally stumped as to how he got here.

It’s so stupid.

It’s so stupid and it makes his eyes water again, mouth dry, chest squeezed so tight it’s hard to breathe, “What the hell are you doin’?”

“Thought about this tonight when I was out with Preston,” Ford chuckles and he’s a little breathless himself, sort of juggling Stan around in his grip. His arms are shaking from the effort, but not by much. He’s stronger than Stan thought. Hell, he’s probably stronger than he thought – his expression confirming this, as it holds some wonder to it. Or maybe that’s wonder from looking into Stan’s face and Stan feels his cheeks heat, eyes darting away because it can’t possibly be that.

He’s not a wondrous thing to look at, to marvel over. Unless it’s in some sort of side-show capacity. Ford lets out a little huff as he starts to move forward, grip tightening, "This’ll definitely help my ‘guns’.”

The jittery mess that currently makes up Stan’s thoughts jumps to the idea of offering to lift weights with him if that’s what he wants. It’s a dumb thought and he knows it rises from how bewildered he is. Ford being all strong and carrying him – it’s unspeakably sweet. And arousing. _Really_ arousing. Stan was unaware how arousing this would be until Ford starts carting him into the bedroom and a familiar throb rises between his legs, letting him know that – yes, he is very much into this.

Ford takes him to the bed and does his valiant best to lower him gently. Despite his efforts, Stan ends up bouncing on the mattress, Ford’s hold sort of giving way at the end. But the overall act still has its desired effect and Stan tugs Ford down to him, captures his mouth in a hungry kiss, hormones running rampant. But Ford’s not ready to be tethered and gives back each kiss almost distractedly as he untangles himself from Stan so that he can get to his feet.

He goes to the door and locks it, looking at his twin with amusement, “What was it you said? No more interruptions?”

“Tides have turned, huh?” Stan gasps and Ford gives him a dark chuckle, “Well, we never have any problems when we’re in here.”

He comes over and flops to one side of Stan on the bed, propping himself up on an elbow as he looks down at him, “We should just stay here.”

Stan snorts as he lies on his back, eyes settling on the ceiling, “Forever?”

Ford shrugs as much as he can in his current position, “Just wait inside 'till somebody finds us.”

“So, Fidds?”

“Possibly,” Ford whispers and Stan can feel his eyes lingering over him, scaling him from head to toe. He finds himself feeling self-conscious, not used to this kind of scrutiny. Ford rolls over top of him, right into his field of vision. He takes Stan’s lips with his own, kissing him with a lazy, but assured sensuality. Stan hums with pleasure, fingers finding Ford’s back, trailing up and down its full length with comfortable ease.

They kiss for quite a while, lost in one another and Stan loves every blissful second of it. It’s been far too long since he’s enjoyed a pure make out session. And, best of all, it’s Ford he’s sharing it with. Ford Pines – the love of his life. It’s still scary to think of, especially in light of what his father revealed and while part of him holds on to this, resolute in his decision to leave, another part…ah, another part.

Another part of him just wants to bask in this. Wants to enjoy the sheer joy of the moment. To pretend, no matter how vainly, that this could be simple and pure. That Ford can just love him back with no strings attached; no hardships. That he can love him and Stan can believe it. But belief is hard, especially for someone like Stanley and it’s slowly sinking in, making his kisses less enthusiastic. Ford must sense it, because he draws back, eyes sorrowful, “What is it?”

Stan doesn’t even know how to say it. He doesn’t want to. It’s funny – he wants Ford to tell him all about his past pain, but Stan doesn’t want to say a word about his own current troubles. He doesn’t want to do a ‘big’ talk about his feelings, his own issues with Pops. The whole idea of it has an almost knee jerk reaction within him, the desire to flee rearing up again. Talking about feelings and that sort of sentimental claptrap – it’s not something he’s wired to do. He’s not a big talker, a deep thinker or an emotional drama queen – he likes being as far away from those character traits as possible.

Although he may have to rethink ‘deep thinker’. He’s certainly been thinking a lot since the incident in the alley and it must reflect on his face, because Ford picks up one of his hands, kisses the back of it, “You sure you don’t want to talk to me about it?”

Stan looks away and gives a little head shake. He hears Ford drag in a breath, knows he’s yet again wounded him. But Ford asked and he told the truth. He can’t blame himself for that. Then Ford murmurs against the skin of his hand, “We don’t have to do anything invasive, anything overtly sexual…but I do want to keep true to my word. If you won’t let me convince you with words, then it should be with actions.”

Stan’s not sure he understands what Ford means until his brother sits up and takes big handfuls of Stan’s shirt, starts tugging at it and Stan gets the message, helping him to remove his shirt. He lays there, topless, hairs all over his body standing on end as Ford studies him. Stan throws one arm over his eyes, feeling radically exposed as Ford starts running all twelve fingers all over him. He starts at Stan’s neck before going to his chest, digging through the spring chest hair before moving downwards to his belly, rubbing it.

There’s quite a bit of chub here, even despite all the construction work he does. Stan’s just not predisposed to have abs and he swallows thickly, “Sorry ‘bout that. Bit doughy there.”

Ford says nothing and it makes Stan nervous, so he rattles on, “You can tell I’mma be pretty fat and flabby the older I get. Bodies change and mine’s gonna have a real marshmallow quality to it.”

“Shh, it’s gorgeous,” Ford leans down to peck his lips with a quick kiss. Then he kisses the arm covering Stan’s eyes before kissing the center of his chest, then his stomach. He rains kisses all over this part of his body, “This is one of my most favorite parts of you – you’re so warm and soft. So luscious, but with that sleek hint of muscle,” his teeth dig in just a hair and Stan hisses, arm falling away, blood pressure spiking as hot breath washes over his flesh, “Not like a marshmallow at all. Never will be. Just lots of seamless canvas to mark up, to make mine.”

Stan shudders at the idea of this, tries to ignore the hot shaft of lust that bolts through him and fails, because Ford’s mouth has moved to his nipples, teasing there. His tongue is a silky sharp point on the dusky pink tips. Circling and pressing and Stan arches into it, a deep moan working out from the center of him. Little shocks seem to zing out from each touch of Ford’s hot lips.

And his teeth! Christ, Stan didn’t know his brother would be such a biter. His teeth scrape at Stan’s skin with the perfect amount of pressure, right on that edge of being too hard and it’s getting him really worked up. He lets out a few abortive whimpers and his hips are sort of rocking. He knows Ford said it wasn’t about sex, that they didn’t have to do anything overt, but Stan’s finding it hard _not_ to want that. Not that there is anything wrong with this – oh no, Stan’s finds (much to his surprise) that he’s a huge fan of this loving treatment.

This slow, gentle tenderness. He’s pretty sure Ford’s plan of attack is just to dust him all over with affection. To kiss and cuddle and pet, to make him feel loved and he’ll be damned if it isn’t working. He’s this close to taking Ford’s idea and running with it. Just stay in here forever - stay in this warm, hazy cocoon that they’re so meticulously crafting. But he knows eventually they’ll have to leave, eventually they’ll have to go back to the real world. Eventually Stan will have to own up to the fact that his father is right.

But not for now. For now he can have his brother, can love him and Ford’s moved on to his arms, hands brushing up and down them, squeezing the muscles as he huffs out a laugh, “You know…I really _do_ like your shoulder hair.”

He presses kisses onto said hair, nuzzles each shoulder before tracing his mouth along Stan’s collarbones and then down to the center of his chest again, back to his stomach and he seems almost obsessed with this part of him. And Stan’s burgeoning erection is not helped as Ford parts his legs, encourages him to wrap them around his waist before he surges upwards, kissing Stan on the lips. Their mouths lock in heated battle – each meeting of their mouths sloppier than the last, but somehow each more fulfilling than its predecessor.

Maybe it’s because of the outright urgency – their kissing reaching a fevered pitch as Ford just sort of starts rocking his own hips against Stan’s already moving pair and Stan lets out a grunt because god, _yes_ , please and thank you! The building friction is unbearable yet alluring. If they just had more clothes off, if they were both completely bare and a twisted sound of pure desire escapes Stan because he’s hitting that crescendo of unabated yearning that’s almost painful in intensity.

His erection, which before had been something of a mild presence, has grown so full as to be bordering on painful. It presses against the ridged, unforgiving nature of his jeans and he wants to take them off, wants to be completely resplendent in his nudity. Ford seems to read his mind, pulling away from their kissing just enough to speak, his lips brushing Stan’s as he does so, “Can I do more? Can I show you-?”

“Yes,” Stan gasps, “ _Yes_ , fuck… _please_ , Stanford…”

They share another wet, obscenely noisy set of kisses before Ford moves downwards. He tosses aside Stan’s shoes and socks and together they work to tug off his jeans and underwear. Stan finds himself very much in the same position Ford did not too many nights ago. Being completely bared to his fully clothed brother. But while Stan has his own insecurities about his looks, he plays it off with a false sense of bravado, falling back and waving a hand down the whole length of his body as he waggles his eyebrows, “See anything you like?”

Speechless, Ford merely nods before reaching out a hand to touch Stan’s cock. His palm hovers above it and he licks his lips, looking apprehensive, “May I?”

“Well, since you used the correct grammar and all…” Stan jokes but he feels close to choking on his own tongue. God does he want Ford to touch him. He’s dreamed about having one of those six fingered hands wrapped around his dick for far longer than he’d like to admit. But Ford doesn’t immediately cup him, no, instead he carefully trails his fingertips up and down his bobbing length. Stan seals his eyes shut tight because just the sight…Jesus! He feels like he could cum from that alone.

Ford looks so curious, but so in awe. Like he’s never seen something as spectacular as what Stan offers between his legs and it would be laughable if it wasn’t so goddamn sexy. Ford’s inspecting him with the same level of passion he normally reserves for his nerdy science shit and, apparently, that pushes buttons inside Stan he didn’t even know he had. And fuck, Ford’s taking his _time_.

In Stan’s previous sexual encounters it’s always been sort of a rushed affair. Just grab, stroke a couple of times, shoot, done – rinse and repeat as necessary. But Ford’s approach is much more refined. He runs a thumb carefully from root to tip, then uses his other fingers to carefully trace ridges and veins. His whole palm cradles Stan’s straining sack, gently rolling the balls and Stan lets out a sharp ‘ _Fuck_!’ because it feels so damn _brilliant_.

Ford is a little startled by the shout and pulls away his hand as if he’s done something wrong. Stan grips the pillow beneath his head, face flushed red as he moans, “God…no, Ford, don’t stop! Please, oh please, don’t...need more…”

“I-? I didn’t hurt you?”

“No, Jesus,” Stan slurs, drunken with the headiness of their situation. He looks down at him through slitted, glazed eyes, “Ford…felt so fuckin’ good...”

“It did?”

Stan manages a weak nod and he has to give Sixer credit – not most virginal types are this talented. Granted, Stan might be biased because it’s Ford, but his twin just seems to have a natural skill. His innocent, careful approach is turning Stan on far more than any seasoned session with Jimmy did. And Jimmy was a fantastic lover. Honestly, back then, Stan wasn’t sure anyone would ever top the sexual delights he’d experienced with the biker.

But there’s something to be said for emotion being attached to the act and that’s certainly what seems to be the case here. He loves Ford, so he loves what Ford’s doing for him, loves that this is Ford doing it. Loves that…hell, just _love_. He’s so in love that it’s driving him out of his mind. That or maybe it’s how Ford is just…slowly, ever so slowly ratcheting up his focus.

It’s almost done with a laser pin point precision. He goes back to running his fingers up and down Stan before lowering his head and carefully swiping the whole broad base of his tongue over the tender head of Stan’s cock. A low groan rattles out of Stan’s chest and he feels his sanity continue to slip. Ford dips his tongue in the seeping slit, gracefully devouring some pearls of precome that have escaped before closing his entire mouth over him, bobbing his head once or twice.

He’s inexperienced, but earnest in his attempts and Stan wants to offer advice, wants to give him some clues that’ll make this even better, but he’s hesitant to do so. Yet again, their connection seems almost psychic as Ford retreats, regretfully grumbling, “This is harder than it looks.”

Stan chuckles and then wonders what the hell his brother is doing as he starts rooting around to one side of the bed. However his question is answered once Ford emerges with the little bottle of lubricant they used not long ago. He liberally coats his hands with the cool, clear liquid and then he’s got his whole damp hand wrapped around Stan.

He pumps him smoothly, strokes him up and down and the air is filled with the sounds of slippery skin meeting. Stan groans and feels his eyes roll back into the back of his skull; his hands tightening on the pillow so much he’s worried his fingers are going to tear through it as he thrusts up into his twin’s hold. Ford groans right along with him and he changes his angle, gets that much better at working his whole length.

Stan feels like an instrument Ford’s playing, high pitched sounds of different decibels ringing out from his throat. Ford talks then, voice a husky growl, “What do you need? Stanley, tell me? This is my first time…give me direction.”

Direction? Fuck! Stan feels his balls seize at the words, his dick twitching in Ford’s hands because the idea of ordering him around is almost enough to make him cum. This is exactly what he wanted to do earlier, but he held his tongue, wanting to spare his brother’s feelings. But with the green light lit, he pants, “I…could you-? Just…could you squeeze it while going upppp _paaaahhhh_!”

The word breaks off into a cry as Ford follows his instructions so simply and it’s good, so good and then he feels Ford’s _other_ hand join the equation. It’s wet with lube as well at it traces over Stan’s sack and then beneath, gently brushing the sensitive skin there before it pulls away. Both hands do, as point of fact, and Stan wants to scream

But Ford seems focused on reaching for one of their pillows. He manages to snag it, then taps one of Stan’s hipbones. Stan frowns but lifts his hips and Ford slides it beneath him. Then he goes back to his earlier ministrations – one hand working his length, but the other? The other starts carefully prodding at Stan’s tightly furled hole. Stan would be absolutely mortified at the shrill sound of excitement that leaves him at this particular incident if it wasn’t for the fact that’s he’s legitimately too turned on to give a fuck.

He wants Ford’s fingers in him, Oh god, oh god, _oh god_ – he wants that so much and Ford’s voice is a wavering mess as he asks, “May I-?”

“God, yes! Yes, yes, _yes_! _Please_!” Stan mewls, then, somewhat getting ahold of himself, he adds more demurely, “Just go slow, gentle…one-one finger at a time.”

“I-I can do more than one?” the words come out in an astonished groan and Stan looks down, sees Ford grab himself through his own pants and give himself a squeeze and he feels a twinge of sympathy. His poor brother is probably so hard, so aching. But he’s putting it all off, just focusing on him and Stan’s words come out like a hiss of steam, “ _Yeeeees_ , Jimmy would…”

“Jimmy?” Ford repeats and apparently this is what he needed to hear to cool his own adore, “That’s right…you slept with him, didn’t you?”

Stan swallows, worried he killed the mood but then, much to his shock, he feels one of Ford’s fingers start to work its way into him. He sucks in a loud, audible breath and Ford? He just keeps talking, his voice ragged, “He touched you first, didn’t he? He touched you like this?”

“F-Ford…”

“Did you like it?” The question is asked casually but the finger moves deeper, higher, twisting in and out and for someone who’s never done this before, Ford seems pretty damned educated. Stan wonders very, VERY fleetingly if he did some kind of research but that doesn’t matter, nothing matters because he’s starting to dissolve into a quivering mess of nerves. He doesn’t answer Ford with words, just a whimper and Ford picks up his pace a little, “Answer me – did you like it?”

“I- _ah! ah! Ohhhh_! I, uh…fuck…I…” Stan’s panting and it’s so hard to answer with words so he just gives an abortive little nod and the sound that leaves Ford is disapproving. He eases the first finger out and then oh so cautiously adds a second. He wiggles them just so, stretching Stan open and Stan is moving back against the intrusion, choked sobs echoing off the walls of their room because this is too good, too precious and his brother just snarls, “Yes, I’ll bet you did. Bet you loved it! You took it from him, didn’t you? Took it like a good little whore…like a greedy slut!”

Stan has no idea where this is coming from, but it doesn’t matter. He feels flickers shooting throughout his entire body. A heavy dollop of precome is trailing down his length to pool near his bellybutton and he can feel it, can feel himself teetering over the cliff. He’s going to cum, _Jesus fucking Christ_ is he _ever_ going to cum and then Ford brings his mouth down near one of Stan’s legs, mouths and chews on it, tone still so angry, “But you belong to _me_ , Stanley. You’re _mine_ and someday – someday, I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk.”

“ _Ford_!” the name leaves Stan in a tight wheeze and Ford chuckles darkly, “That’s right – don’t forget who you’re with.”

“No, no, I-I wouldn’t-! I- _ohhh_! _Uhhh_! I never-!”

“But you haven’t cum for me yet, have you? What? You too good for me? Is that why you want to leave?”

At this point Stan has no idea what Ford is even talking about. He’s lost in a sea of closeness and every time he thinks: _this is it, this is the moment I tip over_ , Ford draws him back. He’s dexterous enough to work Stan’s shaft and fuck him with his fingers at the same time, but occasionally he’ll stop one to focus on the other or he’ll stop entirely, mouth just licking and nipping at whatever it can reach.

It’s absolute torture.

Instead of just charging forward, instead of just tearing him apart quickly, Ford’s taking Stan apart piece by piece. It’s a gradual, erotic take over in line with Ford’s earlier actions save for his momentary lapse into jealousy. Stan had never seen that side of Ford – the side that talks dirty, that side that’s possessive and apparently it’s been leashed again, but Stan wishes it wasn’t.

Mainly because he’s not sure how long he can hold out. Worse, he’s worried Ford knows _exactly_ how long and that he’s just going to keep bringing Stan to the edge only to take him away again. How the hell does Poindexter do it? Isn’t he supposed to be a novice? This isn’t a porno – he shouldn’t be this magically skilled! But while Ford may not be able to play the guitar, he can most certainly play Stanley and he plays him so well, so beautifully.

Stan feels tears in his eyes and he’s shaking, moaning, out of his mind with lust. He rocks into every movement, responds to every touch and he feels…fuck, he feels worshiped. _Loved_. And it makes the tears in his eyes that much harder to reign in. It’s so wonderful, so sublime and then Ford finally adds the finishing touch, “That’s it…that’s good. So good…you’re being so good for me aren’t you, Stanley?”

The ‘yes’ that leaves him is pitifully high pitched, full of urgency and Ford just gives a sharp grin, “Well then, come on…show me what a good little boy you are – cum for me.”

Stan had suspected he would shout Ford’s name or possibly scream when he finally came. Instead he lets out a strange sob, as if it’s punched right out of his chest. His cock pulses and starts shooting – long, wet streams of cum erupt from him and Ford? Ford just hisses out his approval as he keeps working him. Ford milks every last drop out of him as Stan slowly sinks into afterglow. He’s weightless, careless and air is slowly filtering back into his body. He blindly reaches out and finds the same yellow cardigan from before.

He wipes it along his body and Ford lets out a revolted gasp, “That’s so gross! We haven’t even washed that yet!”

“Used th’ clean side,” Stan blearily mumbles, “‘Sides, boys are jus’ gross – or you forgettin’ who didn’t wash it yet?”

“Mmm, well, I have been busy,” Ford hums and Stan can feel him shifting around on the end of the bed. He suddenly recalls that his brother has had yet to be satisfied and he tries to work out some strength to sit up, to take care of him and return the favor. His hands float out; try to catch hold of Ford, but he’s too far away. And it’s so hard when Stan’s still so lost in the lovely fuzziness of a good orgasm. 

He finally feels his hand brush something, but Ford just bats him away, tone soft, “You don’t have to do anything, Stanley. This was just for you.”

“Bu’ Sixer…” Stan’s tone is ridiculously sleepy and Ford just laughs, “You can go ahead and rest a bit if you want.”

Stan passes out before the sentence is even finished.

 

+

 

 

Hours pass and it’s a little after midnight.

They shower, dress, and gather up the clothes that have so desperately needed cleaning. They have a total of two hefty laundry bags to cart down to the all night Laundromat. Thankfully it’s not too far from where they live, the walking distance bearable despite their burdens. Ford sticks close to Stan and is unbelievably clingy. He bumps their shoulders together, he holds Stan’s hand when he can – he looks at him and feels his heart break.

But he keeps it together. He keeps it entirely together.

In fact, it’s not until they’re into their third load that he says anything. The Laundromat is vacant save the two of them. They sit in the uncomfortable, hideous orange plastic chairs the place provides, watching the dryer in front of them tumble around and around. Ford’s left hand holds Stan’s right, their fingers intertwined and he can’t look him in the eyes as he speaks around the lump that’s been steadily growing in his throat, “You’re still leaving, aren’t you?”

Stan’s head whips to his, “How’d you-?”

“You wanted to wash and dry our clothes separately,” Ford whispers, “We’ve never done that.”

Stan says nothing and Ford swallows thickly, his whole body hot and aching, “What did I do wrong, Stanley? Please, tell me…what’d I do wrong?”

At first he gets no response at all, then a loud, heavy sigh that sounds like it was dragged from the center of Stan’s soul, “You didn’t do nothing wrong, Sixer. This is all on me.”

Ford doesn’t feel like that’s true at all. In fact, he _knows_ it isn’t. It can’t be. He’s flawed. His father’s told him this a million times; pointed out every little detail that proves how he’s poorly made. It has to be that – that has to be what it is. Surely, their father told Stan – that’s why Stan is still going to leave him. Ford tried, he tried so hard…but it wasn’t good enough.

He chews at the inside of his right cheek and scrubs his hands over his eyes to try and keep the tears at bay, “H-h-how so?”

He barely manages to get the question out. He can’t see Stan’s expression, but he knows he’s uncomfortable, “Look, Sixer…Pops…he said a lotta things.”

“They’re _lies_!” Ford bites out, one hand balling into a fist on the top of one of his thighs, smacking it with force, “They’re lies if they’re going to make you leave me!”

“No. They weren’t,” he sounds so sure – tone dead, serious.

“Stanley,” Ford’s tone is begging, _begging_ , “Just-just tell me. Tell me what he said.”

“Trust me…you don’t want to hear it.”

Ford’s blood turns to ice. The fire that roared within him earlier flash freezes. So. He was right then. Dad outlined all of Ford’s faults for Stanley and Stan…he finally _sees_ them. He recognizes them and while he might not agree with his brother being battered, he _does_ agree that Ford is…lacking. But he’s good enough, sweet enough, as a brother not to repeat them.

Maybe it’s something else, it _could_ be something else, but Stan is providing nothing and Ford’s a logical creature at heart. This is the most logical answer. Filbrick Pines has always viewed Ford with a level of disdain – a level which, admittedly, Ford deserves. He’s been called a freak all his life by a variety of different people. He’s dealt with the outright, open stares. The not so subtle whispers behind his back. He might have a genius level intellect but what does that matter in light of all his other deficiencies? The majority rules, correct? The most commonly upheld belief must be true.

In some ways, the worst of ways, he wishes that right now – in this moment – Stanley would just _hit_ him. Sometimes, in the darkest of times, when his father would say cruel things to him and then match it with physical torments it- well, it equaled things out. Words matched actions. But Stan’s actions don’t match his words. But then, he hasn’t even said anything has he? No, he’s keeping it all locked up in his mind and his actions…well, he _is_ leaving, isn’t he?

Ford’s not even aware he’s openly crying until Stan tugs him close, hugs him, resting his chin on the top of Ford’s head and rubbing his arms as he cradles him close, “Listen, I-I won’t move out, okay? I just…I’m gonna leave for a little bit. Everything happened so fast between us, I think we should…should take a step back, yeah?”

“Wh-wh-wh,” Ford's never had such a hard time speaking in all his life and he hates it. He _hates_ it. He sucks in several loud, wet breaths and tries to stop blubbering, forcing himself to speak, “Where will you go?”

“Dunno. Have an idea though.”

“J- _huh_ ,” his breath doesn’t want to come, doesn’t want to form the name, “J-Jimmy?”

“No. Christ, Sixer, _no_ ,” Stan says firmly, but punctuated with his own sniffle, “I ain’t going back with Jimmy. Like I told you, that was a one-time thing and it was long ago. That’s over now. No, I was…was thinking about contacting Rick.”

“Rick?”

He can feel Stan nod, “He’s a musician. Might need a backup man, a roadie. It’d be good experience for me. And I’d get to get out and travel…stretch my legs.”

“Will you-?” Ford pauses and forces himself to sit up, forces himself to draw on an inner well of strength as he meets Stan's eyes with his own, “Will you come back?”

Stan looks at him and his eyes…they're not very convincing, “Sure.”

“Promise me,” Ford wipes away the last of his tears and his tone is as firm as it is cool, “Promise me, Stanley. Say you’ll come back. Say you _promise_ me, Stanley.”

Stan blinks a couple of times, his face inscrutable. Finally he says, “Yeah, yeah. Sure. Promise.”

The dryer dings, letting them know it’s done.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Language - mainly because one of the POVs is from Rick Sanchez, which pretty much means non-stop cursing.

Shandra Jimenez hates stupid people.

More accurately – she hates stupid people she _knows_.

Even _more_ accurately – she hates stupid _Stans_ she knows.

Stanley and Stanford Pines to be exact. What a couple of complete idiots. When Stan left, he swore he wasn’t moving out. He sent a couple blithe texts to his friends, promising he’d ‘be back soon’. And this was fine for the first couple of days. But then days slipped into weeks. And now weeks have slipped into over a month and Shandra is drawing a line.

She’s not allowing one month and thirteen days to slip into a second month. No _months_ – and sure as hell no _years_. Stanley Pines is coming back whether he likes it or not! Even if she has to physically drag him back here herself by that scraggly little ponytail of his! And Ford? Oh, he’s no help whatsoever! Has he gone looking for his stupid yo-yo of a brother? No.

All he’s done is mope.

In fact, the first couple weeks he was nothing short of a complete recluse – he called out of work, he skipped class – Fidds pretty much had to bodily remove him from the apartment. And once he was out? Nothing but sad, hollow puppy dog eyes. So, Shandra did what she does best – she investigated. It didn’t take a crackerjack reporter to piece together that the Pines twins’s jackass of a father was responsible for everything.

She had had a bad feeling about that guy from the get go. The moment he’d charged into the Press Room she’d known there was nothing but a shit storm coming with him. And her fears were confirmed when she’d found Stan all broken in the alley. She comforted him, tried to get him to talk about it, but he’d been decidedly tight lipped. She blamed herself in some ways – maybe she should have pushed harder, gotten him to open up and tell her whatever the hell that idiot said so she could have properly shot it all down.

But she hadn’t and Stan had gone home to see his brother and, well, then it had all been blown to hell and been taken completely out of her hands. Stan left. Left and promised to return but this many days out, she was finding it less and less likely. Ford mutely said he got some messages from him now and again – just locations of where he was. Stan also made sure to pay his half of the bills online, thus playing his part to make sure that their apartment wasn’t lost.

But past that, he's just _gone_. The bastard even missed Christmas. _Christmas_. Fidds joked that maybe this was his way of avoiding giving them all presents and Shandra merely shot him a cool look. Fidds just raised his hands in apology and she’d asked him what messages he’d received. Apparently he’d gotten even less than Ford and while Fidds always plays things closer to the vest, it’s clear that he’s actually just as pissed as Shandra is.

He just does a much better job of pretending otherwise. It’s clear why Stan is avoiding talking with Fidds though. It’s the same reason he’s avoiding Shandra. Because the hotheaded lil’ shit probably knows that if he talks to either of them, he’ll get an earful and they might convince him to come home. And that’s the thing – he _needs_ to come home.

Shandra’s had to deal with days and days of a sulky Ford and a Press Room without him. Customers asking specifically for him and his music, Toby whining about his loss even though Toby – _Toby_ was the one who gave him leave to go! When Shandra asked about it, he’d merely shrugged his wimpy little shoulders and told her he figured Stan asked for an extended leave from the job because of something family related.

He’d then squeaked out in a wavering tremble, “I figured it had something to do with his father! That guy gave me the heebie jeebies!”

Which just made Shandra roll her eyes, because Toby being a complete pussy wasn’t a big shock, but it sure as shit was still annoying. Maybe if her boss had had some spine, Stan might have reconsidered. But then, as far as her research has gone, thus far it appears there’s nothing anyone could have done. Ford morosely confessed that whatever his dad said to Stan in the alley really got to him – motivated him to leave.

Ford has asked his dad what was said, but the only response he’s gotten is that it’s ‘none of his business’ and that it’s ‘between him and Stanley’. This infuriates Shandra, but Ford just swallows it. She wonders why and thinks now and then of pushing, but there’s a look in Ford’s eyes when his father is mentioned…a sort of wild, hunted look. And while her interaction with the man was extremely brief, she has her suspicions as to why – and it’s not good.

So, she’s decided to focus on what’s good, what she can do to help, to make this situation better. And thus, Operation: Bring Back Stanley was born. She’s into her early stages of the plan. She knows from Ford that Stan’s traveling with a band called ‘The Flesh Curtains’. It’s easy enough to track their movements on their website and through their twitter account. She also manages to weasel out of Ford info on the band’s leader, Rick Sanchez. He has a tumblr account (wubbalubbadubbdubb) but it’s mostly reblogs – cat videos, weird vines.

However, with enough digging she finds the occasional legit post about science and even a few about the band. One in particular catches her interest, wherein he talks about their ‘band bitch’, who, she is quite sure, is Stanley. And from what little Rick writes, it’s clear ‘band bitch’ is just as moody and sullen as Ford. Again, she _hates_ stupid people! And these twins have to be the biggest dum dums in existence! Hence the importance of the Operation: BBS! But one awesome woman alone can’t move mountains, so she’s decided to add others to the fold.

Which is exactly why she’s invited both Fidds and Susan to join her today at the local farmer’s market. It’s early January, so the market doesn’t have much to offer, but there’s still a decent enough selection of produce and flowers. Not to mention some unique cheeses, jams, and freshly baked bread. She’s eyeing some apples (since they are in season) and thinking of how they can be incorporated into the Press Room’s menu when she spots Susan.

Susan is wearing her normal off work attire – a cute rockabilly sort of dress, her dark hair pinned up with a handkerchief. Shandra herself wears a white blouse, dark suit jacket and matching leggings. Both being former fashion majors, it's hard to let the desire for a good look go. She grins as she thinks this, waving to Susan who catches sight of her, and offers her own wave. Susan makes an immediate beeline over.

“Look at you,” Susan gushes as she takes Shandra’s hands in hers and swings her arms, “Looking like a little fashion plate.”

“Please,” Shandra laughs, “You’ve got so much more color – and those shoes!”

Susan shakes her cute little red heels with a laugh before hugging her friend, “How’re you?”

“I should be asking you that question, shouldn’t I? Last I heard, you were trying to get a spot at Alice’s Bakery.”

Susan lets out a heartfelt sigh, “Yes, well, sadly that fell through.”

Shandra lets out a displeased grunt, “Well then! Guess I’m crossing them off my list. No way will I set foot in a place that doesn’t recognize your innate talents. Clearly they have no taste whatsoever.”

“Agreed.”

“Any other jobs in the offing?”

She shrugs, “Nothing too exciting. It’s looking like I’ll be with the Diner a little longer. But it’s not a bad fit. Besides, Bud is actually talking about letting me add an item to the menu.”

“Really?”

She nods, “My panna cotta.”

“No shit,” Shandra laughs, “Well _that’s_ exciting.”

“I know, right?” Susan gushes and Shandra’s pleased to see her friend so cheerful. Thinking she’ll still keep her in the vein, she asks, “So, where’s Fidds? I take it he’s with you?”

This gets an even greater sigh than the first and Shandra knows immediately, “Oh no. Don’t tell me-?”

Susan nods and Shandra groans, “He’s still staying at Ford’s?”

“Well, now,” Susan returns gently, “technically it's just as much  _his_ place. He still pays rent, still has his own room…”

“Sweetie,” Shandra cuts in, “let’s be real – he hasn’t honestly lived there since you two started getting hot and heavy. And I seem to recall you hinting to me that you two were talking about taking things to the next level.”

Susan bites her bottom lip, “It’s-it’s true. We talked about moving in together before everything went haywire. My roommate Monica is moving out and Fidds was set to take her place. He was just trying to think of a way to break it to Stan and Ford when it all went to hell in a handbasket. He just…he can’t move out now. Not with Stan gone. Ford needs someone with him right now, he’s,” she struggles to find a word before settling on, “fragile.”

“He’s an idiot is what he is,” Shandra mutters, “Stanley too. I’ve never met two such big idiots in all my life!”

“Now, Shandra,” Susan argues, “You don’t know their whole story…”

“I’m figuring it out,” She grumbles and thinks (a little guiltily) about the hospital records she’s uncovered. Sometimes her reporter skills are a little…cut throat in their execution. The records she unlocked on Ford…well, they’re by no means pleasant. And certainly not something she feels she can reveal to the others. Still, the knowledge is there – pressing like a knife point into her back. She just – she wants to _solve_ this thing. Crack it.

Susan must sense her resolve, because she cautions softly, “You shouldn’t dig too deep, Shandra. It’s none of our business.”

“The hell it isn’t!” Shandra returns and at Susan’s disapproving look she softens, “Look…all I’m saying is, we need to do what we can. We need to bring Stan back!”

“Well, we can’t just _force_ him to come back. I’m-I’m sure he’ll turn up on his own,” Susan says quietly, “After all his…brother is here.”

It takes her a while to say ‘brother’ and Shandra knows exactly why, so she cuts through that neatly, “You don’t have to tip toe around me, Susan. I know.”

“K-know?”

Shandra snorts, “You’d have to be blind not to see that those twins are fucking each other.”

“Shandra!” Susan cries out, so startled by her friend’s bluntness that she finds herself giggling madly. Shandra laughs as well, “Look, Sue – I get it. I mean, do I think it’s, uh, weird? Hell, yeah! I mean – I got siblings, y’know? Brothers and sisters and the idea of…just touching them that way and…,” she sticks out her tongue and makes several disgusted faces, “I mean, for me – _no_. No, no, no, _no_ – just _no_. But for them?” she shrugs, "Who the hell am I to judge?”

“Fidds and me feel the same.”

“Okay, right, so? We gotta get Stan back, right? For both their sakes,” Shandra presses and Susan looks a little swayed when suddenly Fidds comes into view. He’s got on bright red suspenders over a crisp brown button up with a knotted bow tie and tweed slacks. His beard is as fluffy and full as always, glasses firmly in place and when his eyes lock with Susan’s, that’s all it takes. She practically barrels into his arms and Shandra can’t help but smirk. It would be cute if it wasn’t so sickening. Love. Woof. The thought makes her laugh to herself and she watches Fidds hug Susan close, watches him swing her around in his grip as if he’s returned from some great war.

Hell, for them it probably feels that way. She honestly can’t think of a moment when the twosome were apart for long. Much like _another_ twosome she knows. One that is down to a solo member, Ford walking up behind Fidds, hands in his pockets; shoulders slumped in their now permanent slouch. His face is pale and there are raccoon rings under his eyes. He’s wearing a zipped up dark black hoodie and dark black jeans – mourning clothes. The only flashes of color are his wooden triangle necklace and his multicolored beanie.

She looks at all three of them and feels her heart sink. Ford looks lost. Fidds looks at Susan as if he hasn’t seen her in forever, his missing her palpable, and Susan looks much the same. Everyone is hurting from this. Everyone is suffering from this. Their little group is broken and she’ll be damned if it stays this way. It needs to be the five of them, united and strong, happy – just like they used to be.

Or maybe not _exactly_ like it used to be.

After all, there _is_ one person who is benefiting from this strife and she sees him approach from behind Ford, looking slightly apprehensive as always. Preston Northwest. He’s wearing shades that he carefully pushes up so they rest on top of his perfectly coiffed head, a white sweater knotted about his shoulders. He has on a salmon polo short with the Northwest crest on the right breast pocket and perfectly ironed khakis beneath.

He seems out of place next to the rest of them. They’re all well dressed in their own right, but he looks like he’s just stepped off a yacht or out of a country club. But the normal arrogance his features have always carried seem…less. It’s been less ever since Ford brought him to the Press Room two weeks ago. Shandra had heard that Preston and Ford had become sort of chummy, but it was still a shock to see. Even more so when Preston seems genuinely contrite about his former actions.

He apologized to her for their date – which, while not a complete disaster, had certainly been lacking. Then he’d offered similar overtures to Fidds and Susan respectively. To Toby he’s offered nothing, but everyone is in silent agreement that this is perfectly acceptable. As is Preston. He’s by no means perfect. He still occasionally says some nasty, offhanded things. But the difference now is that they appear to be unintentional. And, once pointed out to him, he seems legitimately sorry.

Preston attributes all of this to Ford, remarking that he, quote, ‘clearly misjudged his fine character’. But Shandra noted that when he said this his cheeks took on a particular hue and she knew then just how Preston had misjudged Ford’s character. Because he’s realized that Ford is, in fact, very much like him. Someone open to a same sex relationship. Something Preston is interested in, even if he’ll fight tooth and nail to deny it if confronted on the issue.

But Shandra, as always, knows the truth. That reporter’s instincts again. When he’d asked her out, she’d suspected that he might be gay, but agreed out of curiosity. Not to mention that he is fabulously wealthy, and who can say no to the chance to experience some of that wealth? But once out with him, it was quite clear that he wasn’t really interested in her or in any woman period. However, it was also clear that he's deep in the closet. At the time, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, just as she felt sorry for anyone who denied themselves their true nature.

With this in mind, she’ll admit it’s been nice to see him slowly approach the door, no matter how cautiously. Unfortunately, it appears as if he hopes that Ford will be waiting for him on the other side of it. If this is truly his hope, Shandra’s positive he’ll be disappointed. Ford’s obviously still hung up on Stan, his brother not being in town regardless. But Preston, living on this dream, is currently the only one taking any sort of pleasure from Stan’s absence. It’s made it possible for him to slip easily into their lives and, specifically, the spot vacated near Ford.

In fact, upon seeing Preston, Ford does smile, albeit only slightly. But slightly is all that’s need for Preston to look like a love-struck dope. She slowly walks over to them, hands in her suit pockets as she gives each of them a small tip of her head, “Fidds, Ford, Preston.”

They each greet her verbally although Preston, as is his style, holds out one hand. She takes it and he kisses the back. She rolls her eyes, “You know, you don’t have to do that every time, right?”

“I like to greet pretty ladies as gentlemanly as possible. Which reminds me,” he holds out another hand to Susan who takes it with a tiny giggle. He kisses the back of her hand as well and Fidds, as always, shoots him a warning look, “Hey! Watch it, buddy!”

Preston holds up his hands as usual, the action a silent ask for forgiveness, but Fidds just grins and cradles Susan close, rubbing one of her shoulders as he looks at him, “You gonna pick us out some flowers for the café?”

He eyes the booths, “I _suppose_ I could find something suitable for your pedestrian establishment. Ford?”

Ford offers a quiet ‘yup’ and the two walk off together. Shandra watches them go and looks to Fidds, “Why did you do that?”

“Why did I do what?”

“Send Ford off with Preston? You know Preston’s crazy about him!”

“That may be, but Ford doesn’t pick up on it.”

Shandra scoffs, “Yeah, like he didn’t pick up on Stan crushing on him for years. How can someone be that clueless not just once but _twice_?”

Fidds offers a shrug, “What can I say? My buddy’s got a genius level intellect when it comes to science, but he doesn’t have the sense god gave him when it comes to personal stuff. ‘Sides, I didn’t send them off together. Ford just naturally gravitates towards him these days. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say it’s because, out of all of us, Preston makes him think of Stan the least.”

“Even though Stan punched him in the face and cursed him about a million times?”

Fidds tugs Susan closer and kisses the top of her head, “He was never part of our group till after Stan’d gone. That makes him separate. Not to mention I ‘magine he views Preston as something of a pet project. He’s helping him to be more accessible to us common folk.”

“And Preston offers him distraction,” Shandra murmurs quietly as Fidds nods, “That he does.”

“You see the two of them together a lot?”

“Preston comes by the apartment every now and then. The first time, lord, you don’t even know how hilarious that was. Boy looked like he’d wandered into a Nicaraguan prison – you wanna talk about terrified – _shoot_. Thought about filming it on my phone and puttin’ it on YouTube. Woulda probably got a million hits.”

Susan laughs and huddles closer to him, clinging to one of his hands, “How is he otherwise?”

“Ford?” she gives a confirming nod and Fidds looks sad, “Ghastly. He barely passed his winter finals. To be honest, I’m worried that if this keeps up, he’ll lose his scholarship. He hardly eats, hardly sleeps – I have ta push him to change his clothes, to shower. All he does is check his phone and his e-mail. He gets a message from Stanley? He’s over the moon for about a second, but then it’s right back into that well of despair – ‘specially seeing as most of the messages are just things like ‘in Sacramento’ or ‘heading to Vegas for a weekend show’.”

“Have you gotten anything more concrete from Stan?” Shandra presses and Fidds shakes his head, “Nah. And I’ve sent him ‘bout a dozen messages. Told him how poor Ford is doin’ too. Only thing I got of any note was a drunken voice message a few nights ago.”

Susan draws back, looking shocked, “You didn’t tell me.”

“I know. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I ain’t had time to tell ya – been so busy with Ford.”

“Well?!” Shandra snaps sharply, equal parts excited and frustrated, “What’d he say?”

“It was mostly just mumbles – not a whole lotta it was audible. But the gist was that Ford was better off and that I should take care of him. That his daddy wasn’t gonna win or some such bullshit.”

Shandra’s hands are like claws, rending at the sky as she growls, “When I get my hands on that man!”

“Stan or Mr. Pines?”

“BOTH!”

“Mr. Pines’ll be a while. After that bit with Stan, he and Mrs. Pines shoved off for home. Said they might come back later, but I kinda doubt it. They did their damage, said their piece.”

“I just don’t get it,” Susan interjects sadly, “My parents would never say or do any of the things Stan and Ford’s parents seem to be capable of.”

“Mine either, darlin’,” Fidds says, “Poppa and Momma love me and my siblings damn near to death. You, Shandra?”

“Oh god,” she huffs out a laugh, “You don’t even want to _know_ about the Jimenez household! Everyone is in everybody else’s business twenty four seven and it’s _multigenerational_ meddling! So, yeah, this whole thing is foreign to me too.”

“Well, it ain’t as if Ford’s helping the situation either,” Fidds argues, “he could try harder to reach out to Stanley, but it’s just…it’s like he’s given up.”

“Oh, I’m _aware_ ,” Shandra grunts and she shoves her hands deeper into her pockets, “He’s lucky as hell I haven’t strangled him to death yet. Do you _know_ what a shift with him at work is like?”

“Yes, I’ve done it,” Fidds offers and truly, he’s probably dealt with Ford more than any of them, but Shandra still feels the need to vent, “It’s all him moodily staring off into space and speaking in monotone and the board! Have you seen the chalkboard out front?”

Susan’s eyebrows knit together, “What about it? It…it says the current special doesn’t it? Something about your blueberry muffins and Colombian dark roast?”

“ _Yes_! It says exactly what it’s supposed to!” Shandra nearly howls, “I _HATE_ it!”

Fidds smirks, “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“Oh, shut up!” she grumbles, but with good humor, “You know what I mean.”

“I do. I miss Stanley too, Shandra.”

“We all do,” Susan intones and this is when Shandra knows it’s time to step in, “Okay, good, so since we’re all in agreement, we need to start talking about what I like to call Operation: BBS! Or, Operation: Bring Back Stanley!”

“Oh,” Susan breathes, “I thought maybe it meant Operation: Babies.”

“Well,” Shandra deflates for a moment then offers a cunning grin, “Actually that fits too – ‘cause these two knuckleheads are _acting_ like babies!”

“I told you earlier, I don’t think we can’t force Stan to come back,” Susan says and this is when Shandra’s grin grows into a full blown, calculating smile, “I know – that’s why we’re going to trick him into coming back!”

Fidds and Susan both look intrigued and Shandra continues, “He’s running around with that band, right? So – we just need to get _them_ to come _here_. If the band comes, Stan’ll follow.”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Fidds rubs at his beard looking thoughtful, “Stan will see right through that. It’s not easy to con a con man and, let me tell you, Stan is a helluva con man. Did I ever tell you girls about how he took me and Ford to the movies all summer and never paid once? Hell, he even got us free popcorn and drinks half the time!”

“Okay, but this will be different,” Shandra assures him, “Because we’re going to be focusing on the _band_.”

“How so?”

Shandra licks her lips, eyes flashing with excitement, “We open the patio back up.”

“The patio?! You gotta be kidding me!”

“Patio? What patio?” Susan asks, confused, as this part of the conversation seems only knowledgeable to the two of them. Shandra explains, “The patio is the outdoor portion of the Press Room. It’s to the right side of the building and it’s been closed off due to…issues.”

Fidds sputters, “Yeah, if you want to call that hoarder’s paradise an ‘issue’.”

“Hey! How can I help it if Toby’s a weirdo?” she looks to Susan for sympathy, “See, when we first opened it, Toby wanted to put all sorts of things back there – a koi pond, a waterfall, sculptures – but then he went _nuts_. He started buying things we _really_ didn’t need and put them back there! Wax figures, cardboard cut outs, a collection of turkey basters – it was like the idea of it was too much for him – he just _snapped_!”

“Turkey basters?” Susan asks and in perfect unison Fidds and Shandra beg, “Don’t ask.”

“There’s no way we can re-open the patio!” Fidds intones sagely, “Stanley and me had to build up that picket fence just ta hide it from the public eye! If we try working on it, Toby’ll just snap again!”

“Not if we don’t let him know we’re doing it,” Shandra argues, “Look – we find a way to get him out of town for a couple of days, right? Then we bust our asses – get the patio cleared out and spotless. _Then_ we throw a Friday Night Jam session there – biggest one we’ve ever had and we get ‘the Flesh Curtains’ to play it! Stan comes back, sees Ford, Ford sees Stan – two twins realize their idiots, but idiots who love one another and voila! Problem solved!”

“Think you’re making this a little too easy…” Fidds says as he rubs at the back of one neck but Shandra is adamant, “I’m not. He’s been gone for over a month, okay? He’s probably proved to himself whatever stupid thing he needed to prove, but he’s too much of a stubborn jackass to get over himself and get back here. And Ford? He’s apparently too much of a chickenshit to go out there and drag his bro bro home, which means we gotta step up our game and do what we can to put things right!”

Fidds and Susan still look unconvinced, so Shandra lets out a shaky breath, going for broke, “Look, okay…maybe this idea won’t work. I won’t lie – it’s iffy from start to finish. But we have to at least _try_. Not only for us, but for our friends. If they see one another again and they don’t reunite, well then…fine. Okay. But at least we did our best. At least we _tried_. So…come on? You two with me?”

Susan’s lips quirk up in a tiny smile, “Well…I do love a love story.”

“Fidds?”

He sucks in a loud breath then releases it, “Don’t know if it’ll work but…suppose there’s not much else to do. Things can’t go on like this forever. I’m in.”

Shandra lets out a happy squeal and starts clapping her hands together, “Awesome!”

“But how’re we gonna get Toby outta town to start work on the patio?” Fidds asks, “And how’re we gonna get the band here? I imagine they’ll want money – money we don’t have.”

“I’ll take care of Toby and as for the money,” Shandra looks away from them and sees Preston and Ford walking back over, her gaze zeroing in on Preston in particular, “I have an idea for that too.”

 

+

 

It’s the strangest thing – if you‘d asked Preston a few months ago if he thought he would become friends with Stanford Pines, he would have laughed in your face. He’d sworn to himself that he would always hate him – from the moment he and his father had left the Dean’s party and his father had started extoling all the virtues Ford had over him, he’d nurtured that hatred. And it’d been so easy to hold on to, as Ford excelled in school - garnering the admiration and loyalty of the faculty and students. As he’d earned accolade after accolade, as he’d gone around campus and just – just been annoyingly _perfect_.

Perfect save for that _one_ imperfection – his hands, which Preston chose to zero in on, because it seemed to be the only way to hurt him, the only way to tear him down. Well, that and making snide remarks about his lumbering twin brother. But then somehow things had changed – they started at the party and then more so after they’d spent time together and now Preston finds he understands why everyone’s spoken so highly of him.

Ford Pines isn’t perfect, but he _is_ interesting. And likeable. And funny. And he offered an olive branch to Preston when he didn’t have to. Preston had been wary of it at first. The last time he’d let himself open up to someone, _truly_ open up, they’d…left. He doesn’t think of Rafe often. At least he tries not to. The gardener his father hired had been the first, and for a while, the _only_ person he’d ever truly felt comfortable with.

Rafe had helped educate him about flowers and asked about his day. He’d seemed legitimately invested in Preston. Preston had never met anyone like that before. It wasn’t as if he’d received that sort of attention previously. Not from the myriad staff his father hired and certainly not from his father, who only checked in on him – vague ‘progress’ reports that he asked for once a week at Fridays precisely at noon.

Sure, Preston had met with various other rich and affluent people his age, but he’d never clicked with them – not really. It was like being in a play twenty four seven. Acting on stage in front of a large, live audience. Going through the motions, putting on a front. Calculating every movement, every little thing you’re about to say. Making sure it’s measured and delivered with an impeccable amount of finesse, because if you slip, even ever so slightly, it will get out and float around all the social circles. You’ll be marked, ostracized, you’ll bring shame and dishonor on your good family name and no one will want to interact with you. No one will want to do business with you and business is oh so important.

Once you have wealth, you must keep it – always. You cannot lose it, cannot let yourself become tarnished or less than stellar in any way. Preston has had this mantra drummed into him repeatedly since birth. So much so that he’s always felt stiff, always felt the need to be cavalier about everything. You can’t be open; you can’t actually possess blood in your veins. You can’t be warm or friendly. It’s unacceptable to laugh too loudly or smile too broadly, to be…happy.

It’s okay to be _pleased_. It’s okay to be _respectable_. But never, ever happy. At least, not the true definition of the word. And content? Well, how can you ever truly be content when there’s always some new business venture on the horizon? Some new capitol to be gained? You always have to have something in the offing – you can never stop, never breathe – all that matters is amassing more to your empire.

Preston has followed along with this his entire life save for the brief respite with Rafe and then that had been dashed to the winds. His father fired him and Rafe? Rafe left. He left and never returned and Preston learned from it. He learned that he must be colder, must be stronger, must never let anyone in ever again and yet here he is now…with the least likely person having wormed their way in. Worst of all?

Preston finds he _likes_ it.

It’s sort of wild and ambitious, sort of thrilling to have someone to be friends with again and he’s still tip toeing around that word, because it makes him feel unsure. Preston is unaccustomed to being unsure. He’s also unaccustomed to all the things Ford has introduced into his life, because there is more than just Ford – there’s Shandra and Fiddleford and Susan.

To think, he has not one – but _four_ people he can now actually hold conversations with. Conversations not weighted in stocks or bonds or anything financial. None of them ask him about his most recent acquisitions. None of them have bragged or bribed or done any of the things he’s grown used to experiencing from other people of his rank. They don’t even _have_ ranks – they’re all…equals. It’s so fascinating and Preston knows he should look down his nose at it, knows his father would be furious at his actions but Preston just can’t seem to drum up the withal to care.

He likes this new aspect of his life. He likes the idea of having people around who care. It feels…good. It makes him…happy. And while that’s nerve wracking and scary, he finds himself reluctant to draw away from it. He wants to experience more of it and to be frank, he especially wants to experience it with Ford in particular, who reminds him of Rafe in so many ways.

But in good ways. Ways where he feels his heart stir and his breath quicken. Ways that he is perfectly aware are completely forbidden. Ways he refuses to actually name, but enjoys feeling nonetheless. And what can it hurt to feel them? So long as he doesn’t _act_ on them. He…he acted on them once before. Just once. With Rafe. It was why he was let go. It’s probably why Preston’s never seen him again. Rafe probably didn’t even really want him to-to…

He swallows, the kiss flashing before his eyes and he immediately shoves it away. No, no, no, _no_. Don’t think about that, never think about that. Not again. Never again. No…he’ll just…be more careful this time. Yes, that’s it! He can feel these things for Ford, oh so secretly, but he must never, ever, EVER act on them.

He can’t lose Ford.

He _can’t_.

He doesn’t think he would survive such a loss – not a second time. He doesn’t want to freeze again, doesn’t want to go back to his rigid existence. No, he’ll stay like this. Open and curious and exploring. It’s what he’s doing right now as he walks around the charming little farmer’s market with Ford at his side. As always, Ford looks sad and Preston knows why. Stanley Pines. How could that oaf have left? Preston doesn’t understand it and Ford hasn’t done much to explain it.

Frankly, Preston doesn’t need _it_ explained. He’d always thought Stanley foolish, but this exceeds even his most wild of expectations. To leave Ford…

He shakes his head to himself and gently nudges Ford’s elbow, “You okay there, Fordsy? Awfully quiet today.”

This is met with a heavy sigh, “I’ve asked you repeatedly not to call me ‘Fordsy’.”

“But it’s a nickname! One that, while I’ll admit was given to you initially with a heavy amount of derision, is now spoken with a much lighter sense of camaraderie! I’ve taken a negative and made it a positive. Surely I should get some points for my efforts.”

“And I take it you want to use those points to continue calling me that?”

“If I may.”

“Can I give _you_ a nickname?”

Preston scowls slightly at this, worried about what exactly he’ll come up with, “I suppose. If you must.”

“Now, now – turnabout’s fair play, Preston,” Ford smirks, “Or should I call you…Pressy? Prissy?”

He gets a disgruntled noise at both these titles and the smirk grows slightly, “How about Westy?”

“Those names are all atrocious, Pines.”

“I don’t know…think I hit it on the head with Prissy,” Ford laughs but the sound is sort of dry, like he doesn’t do it much anymore. Preston knows this is because of Stanley and he scowls. How can Ford still be so broken up about it? It’s been over a month. And sure, it appears that despite his promises, Stanley is not actually planning to return, but he still may. He’s not Rafe and even if he is, then Ford should be glad to be rid of him.

Ford deserves someone who will stick with him no matter what. Preston wouldn’t be chased off. Of course, part of him knows this is only big talk. After all; it’s not as if his father has been made aware of his relationship with Ford. Or, well, to be more accurate – he _has_ , but he’s only been told what he _needs_ to know. After all, Preston’s never missed a Friday check in. He’s told his father of his friendship with Ford, but he’s made sure to layer it in levels of scholarly pursuits, to which the old man approved. How could he not?

Though Mr. Northwest did make sure to ask if there was anyone ‘special’ in Preston’s life, to which Preston smoothly replied that he’d made in roads with the daughter of the Smythe-Smith family. This was not a lie, because he made sure it wasn’t. He _did_ take Sabrina Smythe-Smith out…even if it was to the very coffee shop Ford works at. But she enjoyed herself...somewhat. He sold it to her as a sort of adventure, a chance to experience what the locals do and she’d bought into it.

Regardless, Preston is overall confidant that he would not do what Stanley is currently doing. Now that he’s become closer with Ford, he can’t dream of hurting him, of leaving him. Thus, he is Stanley’s better. Something he merely needs to prove to Ford. They find a wide variety of flowers and Preston is somewhat impressed. January is a tough month for flowers, but the market actually has a great variety of what is hearty,

He sees colorful dahlias and some larkspur – he’s actually really impressed when he comes across some kangaroo paw, as these are not something you often find without going to a very serious florist. Preston picks up several bouquets of lisianthus and shows them to Ford, “I think these will work nicely in that rinky dink café of yours.”

“What’re they?”

“Lisianthus,” Preston supplies and he eyes each bud, making sure the petals are flawless. He discards a purple collection that seems to be a bit wilted and goes for another batch of white. The white selection seems good and, knowing the coloring of the Press Room, he decides to stick with these and a bouquet of pinks. The two together will make a good selection, but he knows he needs something between to jazz it up. He eyes the Moluccela Laevis…they’re a little early to be out but not bad, the green nicely breaking up the arrangement he has so far.

He grabs those as well and turns to Ford, “Moluccela Laevis also known as the Bells of Ireland. They mean luck.”

“And the lisianthus?”

“Appreciation.”

Ford nods to himself then beams, “Hey! Look! They have tulips!”

He grabs a few, “You sent me some of these. What do they mean?”

Preston feels his face heat, “Well, ah, tulips are like roses. They’re meanings are more donated by color.”

“Oh,” Ford’s lips twitch and Preston wonders if he’s trying to remember the color he received back then. Preston certainly hopes not. However, Preston eyes some yellow ones and points to them, “Those used to represent hopeless love, but they’ve evolved somewhat and are now a more modern expression for cheerful thoughts and sunshine. Good for friendship. We should grab a few for the others.”

Ford nods and grabs some. They go to pay and when the girl selling them looks at Ford her eyes widen, “Stanford Pines?”

He looks at her with a frown, “Um, yes?”

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she laughs, “It’s me! Carla McCorkle!”

“Carla? Oh my god…” Ford breathes and she hugs him tightly – or as tightly as she can with her large, pregnant belly resting between them. She draws back, all smiles, “It’s _so_ good to see you!”

“It’s-it’s good to see you too, Carla,” Ford returns, but Preston doesn’t find his tone very convincing, “What…what’re you doing here?”

“Oh, Thistle and me travel around from place to place, you know. Free spirits,” she rubs at her stomach, “Might have to put down some legs though, when this baby comes calling.”

“I see. Congratulations.”

“Thanks!” she giggles, “Yeah, only a few weeks now until he or she gets here. We won’t let any of the doctor’s tell us – we want to be surprised. The world has so few surprises left in it,” she sees Preston and blows a raspberry, “Oh my goodness! I’m being _so_ rude! We haven’t even been introduced! I’m Carla!”

She offers her hand and Preston gingerly takes it, “Preston.”

She gives it a good shake then eyes the two of them, “How long have you two been together?”

“To-to get-?” Preston can’t even finish the word, “Oh no, no, _no_! We’re-ah, just friends.”

“Oh,” she breathes and smacks her forehead, “Yeah! Duh! That makes _so_ much sense! _Totally_ forgot about Stanley! I’m sure you two are still running hand in hand, huh, Ford?”

The look she shoots Ford is far too knowledgeable and he looks wildly unnerved, “What? Wh-why would you say that?”

She just shrugs, “Well, I mean…it just makes _sense_ , right? I mean, even when I dated Stanley it was clear that he was _always_ thinking about you. And now that Thistle’s really taught me how to channel my abilities, I can _really_ see someone’s aura and yours…”

Carla runs her hands alongside his arms, not touching him so much as feeling the air around him as she lets out a breath, “Hmm, well – you’re a little distressed right now. That’s no good, but I can sense it has to do with Stanley. Which makes sense because Stanley’s aura? I mean, even back then, it was _so_ clear. The colors and the vibrations…they were tied _directly_ into yours. Same wavelengths. Not a soul can separate that! You two are just…”

She trails off with a dreamy sigh and while Preston does enjoy his new descent into the commonplace world, this is far too much for him. He merely clears his throat, “Ah, well – here’s the, um, payment.”

“Oh! Thanks!” she takes it and then turns back to Ford, “Hey, you tell your brother I said ‘hi’ and ‘Namaste’ and you take care of him, alright? Make sure you two just channel your energy into one another and you’ll be right as rain!”

Carla gives his cheek a quick peck and Ford touches the skin, coloring slightly. They walk off with their flowers and it’s clear her words have had their impact. Ford looks downtrodden again and Preston mentally curses, “You okay?”

Ford merely nods and hugs the flowers closer. Preston thinks about asking whom that woman was only for Ford to change the subject, “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Freak out if people think we’re a couple?”

Preston stiffens, “I don’t like giving people the wrong impression, that’s all.”

Ford chews on his bottom lip, “Maybe they think it because of your pink shirt.”

This gets a snort, “That’s a very narrow minded point of view.”

“The knotted sweater around your shoulders probably doesn’t help.”

“How dare you question my fashion choices!” Preston argues, but with no heat, instead his tone nothing short of vastly amused, “I’ll have you know these are both Armani!”

“Maybe I just need to try it,” Ford chuckles and he stops near a bench to put down the flowers. He unzips his hoodie to reveal yet another jacket beneath as well as a sweater and Preston scoffs, “How can you wear so many layers?!”

“I get cold! Bite me,” Ford returns with good humor and he ties his hoodie around his shoulders in a mockery of Preston’s own look, “How’s that?”

He gets an eye roll for his effort, but then Preston really notices the jacket, “Hey! That’s mine!”

Ford looks down at the dark suit jacket with the school emblem stitched onto the breast pocket and he blinks, “Oh – yeah. Before Stanley,” he pauses, because every time he says his twin’s name, his face flickers with pain, “Before he left, we did loads of laundry. I remembered wondering where this came from.”

“I draped it over you,” Preston recalls, “That night you were at the frat party. You were unconscious at the time.”

“Ah,” Ford murmurs and he goes to take it off when Preston stops him, “No, hey – it’s…it’s okay. You should keep it.”

“Really?”

Preston nods, “It suits you.”

This gets a grin and Preston tries (and fails) not to blush. A blush that only grows worse as Ford rubs at his chin thoughtfully, “I should give you something in return. A clothing swap.”

“No. That’s-that’s not necessary.”

But Ford looks determined and then he snaps his fingers, “Got it!”

He tugs off his beanie and crams it onto Preston’s head. Preston clutches at the woolly cloth, stunned, “You…you want me to have this?”

“Sure! Looks great on you!” Ford assures him and Preston takes it off momentarily. While Ford turns to pick up the flowers he put down, Preston discreetly smells the beanie. He’s aware it’s probably a creepy action, but he doesn’t care. It smells good – clean and fresh but with a hint of something. Like bergamot, with a touch of cedar. He breathes it in, but makes sure to stop the moment Ford turns back. He carefully adjusts the hat on his head. It’s still warm from where it rested on Ford and he feels very self-conscious as he asks, “How do I look?”

“Great!” Ford returns, playfully punching his arm. They pick up walking again, continuing to look around various stalls. Preston eyes Ford and decides to press his luck, “So…that girl back there?”

“Carla?”

“Yes, her,” Preston sighs, “She said you are distressed.”

“She said she got that from my _aura_ ,” Ford grumbles, implying how it’s such a silly notion and normally Preston would agree, but he finds himself unable to stop, “But she’s not wrong.”

Ford, who’s idling picking up and inspecting fresh herbs from a nearby vendor, turns to look at him with some surprise. Preston doesn’t blame him. For the most part, Preston hasn’t asked about Ford’s personal affairs. Ford told him Stan was gone; Preston accepted it and they focused on other topics of discussion. But now that it’s been brought up, he dips his toes into it, “You mentioned Stanley earlier, but past that, I think I’ve rarely heard you use his name around me since we became sociable.”

Ford slumps, “So?”

“So…he…he _is_ your brother. And your, um, boyfriend, I guess would be the proper term?”

Ford grumbles at the title, looking for all the world as if Preston’s just stabbed him in the ribs. Still, Preston presses on, “You haven’t spoken much about why he left. I’ve gotten bits and pieces from the others, but…”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Ford replies bitterly, “He wanted to leave. I tried to stop him. I blew it. End of discussion.”

“But,” Preston grapples with his words, even as he hates the idea of hurting his new friend, “Surely there must be more to the story?”

“But there _isn’t_!” Ford groans and he twists where he stands, face etched in misery. He rubs at it and lets out a shaky breath, “Look…I _tried_ , okay? I tried to talk him out of it, tried to get him to talk to me, but he…he just left. He _left_. I guess I just wasn’t…I wasn’t…”

He trails off, eyes avoiding Preston’s and Preston has the feeling they’re growing misty. He’s more than prepared to drop the subject, but Ford keeps on as if Preston is continuing to push him, “I don’t know…I guess I wasn’t good enough for him.”

“Ford…” Preston starts; his tone consolatory, but Ford brushes him off, “Look, it doesn’t matter. I failed. And he’s gone, so…that’s that.”

“That can’t be all. Fidds said something about your father-“

“Oh. That,” Ford interrupts and, if possible, he looks even more wretched, “Yeah, I tried to get him to tell me what happened but he was…”

Ford trails off again, but this time his whole body seems to twitch and Preston…Preston recognizes that twitch. He would love to say that he doesn’t, but he does. He does, because he’s done it himself. It’s almost imperceptible. Only someone who’s seen it many times or experienced it for themselves would recognize it. This is why Preston recognizes it, because he’s done that before. Had that uncontrollable response to a thought, to a memory, to a person – or, in his case, a sound.

Just the right pitch of a bell and he’s very much holding the same posture. The one where your mind scatters to the winds and you hate yourself, because you recognize yourself for what you are – a weak coward. A coward who can do nothing to change his fate, can do nothing to stand up to a greater and more powerful force than yourself.

A force like a father – and yes, Preston sees now how Filbrick Pines and Josiah Northwest resemble one another, because they’ve both modeled their sons into these creatures. These rickety frames that pose as human beings. Frames that shatter under the right conditions.

For Preston, it’s the ringing of the bell, the threatening sting of a slap – for Ford? God only knows. So, Preston can understand the fear in pushing his aggressor. In trying to get him to answer a question. No doubt this is why Ford focused solely on trying to get Stanley to answer.

Stan must almost always answer, but not this time…not this time. This time he refused to budge, refused to speak, even though he knew it would hurt Ford. He _left_ even though he knew that would hurt Ford, and that’s certainly not the Stanley Pines Preston knows.

Normally Stanley defends Ford to death - so, for him to go out of his way to cause him distress...it’s beyond curious. Stan no doubt knows Ford’s fears. Likely, Stan has some himself – they are siblings, after all, it is unlikely that he walked away unscathed. But if he has issues, what are they? What did Filbrick Pines say or do that would motivate Stanley to do this? What could the man possibly have said to convince him to keep his distance? To leave?

Preston puzzles over this as he and Ford finally find Shandra, Susan, and Fidds. The three of them are grouped close together, clearly in a deep discussion and when they look up, Shandra’s eyes lock on Preston. He feels a sense of dread at her look and clears his throat, “We’ve return from our errand.”

Susan gasps, “Oh my! These are gorgeous!”

Ford grins as he hands the bouquets over to her. Fidds takes some from Preston and Preston explains, “The tulips are for all of you. An expression of my gratitude for your accepting me as part of your inner circle.”

Susan giggles as she takes some of the tulips and holds them near Fidds, “I think I should make you a flower crown!”

“You do whatever you’d like, Susie, my sweet girl. You make it, I’ll wear it!” He declares and she lets out a little whoop of victory. They walk off together, Ford trailing behind them and Preston is just about to follow when Shandra catches his arm, “Not so fast.”

He stops and eyes her curiously while she calls out to the others, “You guys go on ahead. Preston and I are gonna have a little chat first.”

The other three merely give oblique nods or shrugs as they take off. Preston frowns, “What have I done?”

“You haven’t done anything, Preston,” Shandra exhales loudly, “I need a favor.”

His eyes widen, “Really?”

“Don’t look so shocked. This is something friends do – they ask one another for help.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” he grumbles. One, because he _does_ know that and he doesn’t need her to insult his intelligence and two, because this is a part of ‘friendship’ that he’s been very leery of. Unfortunately, when you have an excellent finances it’s truly only a matter of time before someone asks you for a ‘favor’. And while he’s surprised it’s Shandra of all people, it’s still vaguely disappointing, “So, how much do you need?”

“How much?”

“How much money, Shandra?” he asks with a tired sigh, “That is, I take it, what your favor will be?”

“Yes and no,” she hedges, “I do need some help with money, but it’s not for me. It’s for Ford.”

This perks Preston up, “Ford?”

Shandra nods and she explains everything – she details her entire plan, her ‘Operation: BBS’. She tells him all about her idea to re-open the patio and have a Friday night Jam Session. About inviting the ‘Flesh Curtains’ to play and, more importantly, how doing this will lure Stanley back. This admission makes Preston’s answer easy.

“No.”

“Come on, Preston…”

“ _No_ ,” he intones more deeply, his eyes locked with hers, “I will not pay for that atrocity of a band to come and play here! Have you even _heard_ their music? Music,” he lets out a disgusted huff, “Yeah, if you even want to _call_ it that! The lyrics are vulgar, their handle on their instruments overly ostentatious and loud!”

“Okay, but the band has _nothing_ to do with this, alright? And you _know_ that!” Shandra hisses, “This is about getting Stan back! And, more importantly, getting him back with Ford! Who, might I add, you’ve been around enough to know the truth.”

“Yes, I am aware of the true nature of their relationship,” Preston mutters, “I’ll have you know I was even the one who pointed it out to Stanford! A decision I regret daily!”

“Yeah,” she says dryly, “I’ll just bet you do.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

She gives him a particularly pointed look, eyes lingering over his newly acquired beanie and he feels his face heat, “Look…I don’t know what you think! Nor do I care! Nothing changes the fact that Stanley Pines chose to leave of his own volition. He can choose to return the same if he wishes, but I don’t believe he will and the more I think about it, the more I believe I that it’s for the best!”

“Oh, do you?”

“Yes! Ford will do much better without him!”

Shandra rolls her eyes, “Preston – you have no idea what you’re talking about! You don’t know Stanley very well, alright? You don’t know about the kind of shit he’s been through. Ford’s had it tough, I’ll give you that – but it doesn’t mean you can just disregard all the crap Stan’s been though! He’s suffered just as much and he’s worked hard, do you understand me? He’s worked _damned_ hard.”

Preston’s jaw shifts about as if he is literally chewing on this and Shandra softens, “You don’t know him like I do, Preston. Stanley’s a good guy.”

“They why did he leave?” he asks, hoping maybe she’ll have the answer to the very question he asked Ford and himself earlier.

“Because sometimes good guys do stupid shit,” she returns simply, “And Ford isn’t blameless here. He could’ve stopped Stan, but he didn’t. He should have. He shouldn’t have let Stanley go. And I think, deep down, you know that.”

Preston looks down at his feet and breathes in loudly, “I don’t understand why people care so much about Stanley Pines. I’ll _never_ understand it.”

“No, you won’t,” she agrees, “Not unless you get him back here and get to know him better yourself.”

“Ah, yes, because _that_ will happen. Of course,” he tosses out, voice incredibly bitter, “He’ll come back and there’s no way you won’t push me aside. No, I’m sure Stanley will welcome me with open arms.”

“Whoa, hey,” Shandra reaches out and gently pats one of his arms. Preston is surprised enough by the gesture to look up and her expression is gentle, “Look, Preston…don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re trying to be a good guy too, okay? I mean, let’s be real – you used to be a total and utter shit.”

He snorts and she just continues, “No, I mean it. You were a real asshole. But you’re getting past that, okay? I _see_ that. I see you trying, I see you being a really good friend to Ford – and not just Ford. You’ve been cool to Fidds and to Susan. To me. I see that, I get it, and I promise you, when Stanley comes back – we won’t just shove you away.”

Preston looks away again as he whispers, “But Ford…”

“What about him?”

He doesn’t answer and she tries quietly repeating his name but he doesn’t answer. Not at first, instead he just shrinks in on himself a little before murmuring, “I’m a brother to him now. We’re brothers in arms.”

“Yes, you are,” she promises, “But Stanley’s his _real_ brother. Flesh and blood. And Ford needs him.”

Preston still won’t meet her eyes but she continues, not to be deterred, “Look, you…care for him, right? You care about Ford?”

He finally looks at her, eyes hot, “I do.”

“Fine. Then prove it,” she holds out a card, “I did some digging – this is the info you’ll need to contact the ‘Flesh Curtains’ manager. Use it. Bring him home, Preston. If you really care about Ford, do the right thing.”

Preston looks at the card as if it will bite him. Finally he reaches out and takes it. He puts it in his pocket and sighs, “I might not be able to do this right away…depending on the price asked. I’m paid an allowance. I don’t just have free access to the Northwest treasury.”

“I understand,” she touches his arm again, “But soon, Preston.”

Preston thinks of Ford. He thinks of his smile and his laugh. He thinks of him asking about the meaning of various flowers. He thinks about how Ford is wearing his jacket right now and how he's wearing Ford’s beanie. He feels the weight of this and his heart sinks, “Soon.”

 

+

 

So, here’s the thing – Rick does not like caring about people.

It’s the complete antithesis to who he is as an individual. But, unfortunately, every now and again – it just happens. Thankfully he can only count them on one hand. Or at least he could – until Stanley Pines came along. Now he finds himself extending it to a whopping six people and he’s not at all happy about it. But what can he do? Stanley Pines is one likable son of a bitch. And, more often than not, liking is intrinsically linked with caring.

Therefore - he cares about Stanley. Even though he sure as fuck doesn’t _want_ to. He can still remember when Stan called him. He’d been pretty excited at the time, because he thought Pines had caved and finally given in to his desires for a good, hard screw. Instead Rick drove up in the Flesh Curtain’s party van to find a sad sack waiting for him with big, dewy brown eyes asking if he could join them as a roadie.

Rick was initially angry (and disappointed, ‘cause man, what a waste of a good, solid erection!) because what the fuck? Stan wants to come with? What the hell does he think their outfit is? The circus? But those eyes…shit. The more he looked into them, the less they became ridiculously annoying and weepy. In fact, they became damn near impossible to ignore. Like a glass of finely aged whiskey or a great shot of rum. Bottomless and warm and just – fuck, _tempting_.

And Rick always has had a problem with temptation.

So, he offered Stan the role of groupie, but when that was shot down (which, sadly, he knew it would be) he admitted that while there was no roadie position, he _supposed_ they could use a good band bitch. From then on, Stan was a part of the Flesh Curtains. He carried their amps, set up their mics, worked a bit of security and eventually Rick even allowed him to play a little back up. Stan has a good handle on how to play an axe right. He can draw out some good wails from the strings, really kill a song, and Rick admits it’s fun to fuck with him on stage.

One time he had him up front and center and Rick really worked him into the performance. Got down right on his knees and started licking the body of the guitar and Stan just sweated it, looking amused albeit apprehensively – eyes nervously off to one side as he played. That was the thing too – he just kept playing. Never missed a beat and Rick admires that. Even more so, as he keeps pushing his luck with the kid again and again.

The audiences goes nuts for it too. Girls screaming and tearing their hair out as Rick damn near humps Stan on stage each night and who can blame them? Rick knows for sure he’s hot as shit and Stan is damn pretty. It’s clear the boy doesn’t think of himself that way, but he honest to god _should_. All that long hair and strong cheekbones – fucking _gorgeous_.

But the best thing? The thing that has everybody eating out of Stan’s pretty boy hands? He’s untouchable. Because he’s uninterested. Because, much to Rick’s unending disappointment, it’s clear that Jimmy is _not_ full of shit. Stan’s in love. He’s so stupidly in love with his brother that it’s tangible. Rick doesn’t get it himself – if this Ford is so fucking great, why hasn’t he got Stan under lock and key? Why hasn’t he put a ring on it or whatever the fuck?

If Rick had Stan? Shit – he’d be hitting that every night! Every second of every day! Hell, he’d be all over that hot ass if he just had an in. But he doesn’t. Stan does his part – he acts like he doesn’t give two shits about everything, but that’s clearly not the case. You don’t have to be a genius to see that, and Rick is twice the level of any genius. Hell, it’s half the reason he’s so fucked up half the time. He has to bury himself in alcohol and drugs, because if he doesn’t, he’ll think more clearly and a cleared headed Rick?

…yeah, that is _not_ something the world wants.

Nor is it something it can handle. Period. Hence why Rick makes sure to stay doped up in some capacity at all times. And he doesn’t want to hear Stan’s sob story - he _doesn’t_. When Stan asked to join them, Rick let him. He let him and he said he’d even give Stan a bit of kick back money wise, but there was one and only one stipulation and that was that Stan kept his personal shit to himself. Stan’s honored that. He hasn’t breathed one word about why he wants to tag along.

In fact, he’s talked about pretty much anything else. He’s been jovial, in his own way. Not to mention crafty. This motherfucker - Rick respects him, which says a lot, because the amount of people Rick respects is even lower than the amount of people he cares about. But Stanley…he can get money from just about damn near anything. Rick blows his nose? Stan sells the used Kleenex to some panting girl for twenty bucks. Rick touches a water bottle? Gets fifty for it.

One time, Stan strolled into a dollar store, bought a pack of cheap socks, had the band use markers to draw on them – nothing even fancy and boom!  They turned that trash around and got four hundred and sixty seven dollars for all of it! That’s a different kind of genius, one Rick can totally get behind and Stan has it.

Stan’s gotten them free food at restaurants (used Band-Aid in their food? How’d _that_ get there?). He’s gotten them free hotel stays (Is that blood? Roaches? Change our room – give us a good one, a _free_ one). He’s gotten them a lot of great shit and mainly because he’s pretty much an advocate of pay nothing or, if you must pay, pay as little as fucking possible.

Rick totally approves and Birdperson and Squanchy appreciate it as well. In fact, his band mates are damn near as big of fans of Stan as Rick is. Which is where the annoying part comes in. Because Birdperson, being Birdperson, started pointing out to Rick how troubled Stan is and how Rick should help and normally Rick would’ve told him where to get off except, one, it’s _Birdperson_ and two, it’s fucking _Stanley_.

And Rick _cares_ about Stanley.

Fuck.

Fuck his _life_!

Rick doesn’t want to know the story, but he knows he’ll have to get some details on it. He has no doubt it has something to do with Stan’s inferior twin. Stupid bitch probably turned Stan down at the opportunity for some nice brotherly slap and tickle. Which Rick just doesn’t get – as far as he’s concerned, incest is pretty much a societal construct and fuck society!

Yes, there are some drawbacks – the inbreeding of genetics chief among them, but Stan and Ford are both men, thus no children will be produced, so who gives a shit? If no one’s making any fucking Joffrey Baratheons why not have at it? What you do within the privacy of your own home is your own business. Rick should know – he’s done some pretty nasty (super fun) shit! But it’s not like he’s advertising it around town or something – he just does it, knows it, and owns it. It’s called being a goddamn _gentleman_!

Nevertheless, the point remains – Rick needs to find out what the fuck is wrong with Stan and help him. Because he fucking _cares_. His first go to is to get the bastard totally wasted. Nothing makes you flap your gums like getting riggity, riggity, wrecked, son! And he while he _does_ manage to get him pretty black out drunk (and even gets him to take a hit of Clorthropin X, a drug of his own design) Stan doesn’t breathe a word about his issues.

All that happens is he gets this far off look in his eyes and changes the subject. It’s unbelievably aggravating. Rick tries to get Birdperson to lure it out of him, but his stupidly noble fuck of a friend says it’s ‘his mission’ or some such bullshit. He goes for Squanchy next, but apparently Birdperson already tipped him off and Squanchy knows better than to cross him, so Rick’s _fucked_. He’s been nominated for this shit and he has to follow through.

But how the fuck is he supposed to do that? Have a legit heart to heart with Stan or some shit? The very idea wants to make him want to projectile vomit Linda Blair-Exorcist style. Hell, he’ll spin his head three hundred and sixty degrees while he’s at it, because that’s how little he wants to do this shit. But then the answer ends up in his lap – quite literally.

They’ve just finished up a great show in Los Angeles. Rick in his dressing room and for once it is not a shit venue. It’s classy and nice – he has a fucking fruit plate in this room and everything when he gets a knock on the door. He opens it and a man stands there and he’s wearing a fancy limo driver get-up. He’s also holding Beth’s hand.

Rick’s eyes are big as dinner plates as the little girl squeals and dashes into the room, immediately latching on to his legs. Rick looks up at the guy, “Who the fuck are you? What the fuck is this? How the fuck did you-?!”

“Mr. Sanchez,” the man tips his hat at him, hands him a letter and then just leaves. Rick calls after him, tries to get him to come the fuck back, but the motherfucker is just _gone_. Beth is still clinging to his legs as he opens the letter and scans it quickly. The expletives that leave him are monumentally colorful. Apparently Beth’s stupid whore of a mom has decided that the two of them need some ‘Daddy/Daughter’ time. Or, more accurately, she’s out of the country with Alonso.

Who the fuck is Alonso?! What the fuck kinda name is that?! It’s like the number one name for douchebags! The letter concludes with a phone number for the very same limo driver that dropped Bethie (goddammit, he hates it when this stone cold cunt calls her ‘Bethie’) off and that if Rick feels he ‘can’t handle it’ he should call immediately – otherwise, please do not call for two months. Two months? Two months?! TWO MONTHS?!

Rick clutches at his hair, expression wild even as Beth coos and hugs his legs tighter. He looks down at her and she gives him a big, slobbering grin. Shit! How old is she now? Three? Four? How the hell is he supposed to take care of a kid? A young kid? _His_ young kid? And then, as if to top all his troubles off, Stanley appears, “Hey Rick, Birdperson was wondering-? Wh-? Who?”

Rick groans and waves to her, “Stan, this is my daughter, Beth. Beth, this is my friend, Stanley.”

“Stan’fy!” Beth cries and she runs over to him, offering him a hug. Stan’s face is an interesting mix to be sure – two parts mortified, two parts melting. To be fair – it's hard not to melt around Beth. She’s got golden pigtails, chubby cheeks, and a ridiculously frilly dress on. Not to mention the world’s biggest smile and Stan can’t help but return the hug.

She draws away from it and then turns back to Rick, her eyes on the various make ups on his dressing table. She starts playing with them and Rick lets her, because he doesn’t know what the fuck else to do. Stan looks at him, “Sooooo – your kid?”

“Yeah,” Rick grumbles, crumpling the letter in his hands, “Apparently the womb that spat her out dropped her off here.”

Stan’s face takes on a steely quality and Rick’s surprised by it. Stanley’s either been falsely cheery or downtrodden – there’s been no in between. But now he looks…angry, “I take it she’s an inconvenience, then?”

“How could she not be?”

Stan’s hands ball into fists, “She’s your daughter!”

“Wh- _aaaurp_!-at?” Rick draws out, burping, “No! Not _Beth_! Her whore of a mother!”

Stan relaxes considerably, “Oh.”

“Wh-why’d th-that get you all-all worked up?”

Stan just shrugs and Beth’s giggles fill the air. She’s drawing on her face with Rick’s eyeliner. Black scribble marks are all over her face. He shrugs, the make up’s non-toxic, so…

He turns his attention back to Stan, “C-come on, Stanley. Out with it. Just-just you and your-your buddy Rick here.”

“And Bef’ie!” Beth shouts out, clearly listening in and Rick can’t help but admire her tenacity. Even as he turns to her just enough to say, “It’s BETH, sweetie. Don’t give into that stupid shit your mother says!”

“Bef,” she replies dutifully and Rick hates the fact that he can’t fight off a smile, “Good job.”

Stan leans against the doorway and looks put out as he crosses his arms, “It’s…it’s nothing.”

Rick’s ready to argue but Beth runs over to Stan and she’s holding out a powder brush she grabbed, “F’r YOU!”

His lips twitch and he takes it. She sways from side to side, “Me?”

“Oh! Uh,” Stan pats himself down, looking for some kind of return gift when she reaches up and pats his wrist, hitting the leather cuff he never takes off, “Pretty!”

The flicker of pain that crosses Stan’s face is impossible to miss. He kneels down to her height, “Yeah, um, this was a present too. It’s…from my brother.”

“He here?”

“No, ah…pumpkin,” Stan says the endearment awkwardly; “He’s not.”

“Wha’s his name?”

Stan swallows thickly, “Stanford.”

She giggles, “But _you’re_ Stan’fy!”

“That’s right. _I’m_ Stanley but _he’s_ Stanford. Usually just call him Ford.”

“Ferd.”

A chuckle barrels out of Stan, “That’s right.”

Beth looks him in the eyes and then she nods to herself, “You miss ‘im, huh?”

Stan couldn’t look more surprised than if she’d pulled out a gun, “Uh…yeah. Actually, I do.”

Beth seems pleased that she’s correct and she trundles away as if she hasn’t said something particularly profound. She clambers onto the nearby cushy sofa and lets out a huff as if her tiny existence is very hard. She flounces about on the cushions as Rick eyes Stan and decides, what the fuck, he’ll go for the jugular, “So, if you miss him, why’d you leave?”

Stan doesn’t look as if he wants to answer and Rick just pulls out his flask, taking an exceptionally hefty pull of it because, FUCK his LIFE, “He-he reject yer adv- _aaaaurp_!-ances?”

Again, he expects to not get an answer but, much to his surprise it comes. It’s almost inaudible, but Stan finally replies, “No. The exact opposite, actually.”

The confession is so unexpected; Rick swears it shocks him into sobriety for a second, “Holllllllllllly shit! You hit that?!”

He gets a lip lick before a confirming nod and Rick’s whole body feels electrified, “Fuck, that’s HOT. Shit, man, I gotta tell ya – think I almost _came_ from that!”

Stan just snorts and Rick shakes his head, “Alright, but if you two went all ‘Flowers in the Attic’ on one another then why the fuck are you here?!”

“My Pops…”

“Noooooooo,” Rick wails, fingers dragging down his face, “Shit, no! Just – no, no, NO! Stop the story right now, Pines! I ain’t talking to you about yer daddy issues! You don’t think I have daddy issues? Fuck, you don’t think BETH will have daddy issues?”

He points to his daughter and she’s managed to wriggle her way beneath the cushions, her little butt hanging up in the air at an odd angle as she burrows deeper. He rubs at his face, “Shit, man – everybody’s got fucking daddy issues! And mommy issues! And anyone who says different is either a liar or a fucking LIIIIIIAR!”

The last word is sing-songed and Stan rolls his eyes, “Yeah, I know, Rick. I get it, okay? Look, it’s fine – I DON’T want to talk about it. I just want to keep doing my job.”

“Even if it-it keeps you from yer – _urp_!-one-one true love or some shit?”

This is met with a shrug and Rick curses under his breath. Goddamn he hates caring! He rubs at his eyes, “Look, Pines…”

“I got work to do,” Stan mutters and he stomps off. Rick watches him go and shakes his head, wondering what the fuck he’s supposed to do about that. Then he turns to see that Beth’s passed out under the cushions and he wonders what the fuck he’s supposed to do about this too.


	21. Chapter 21

_~~Dear Stanley~~ _

_~~Stanley~~ _

_Sta-_

Ford hits the backspace bar several times and tries again.

_Hey_

_How’ve you been? I’ve been okay – kind of busy. I started the newest semester and most of my teachers are alright. My favorite class is probably Mr. Richard’s Experimental Physics II course. Lots of really cutting edge stuff there. The only drawback is that I don’t share that class with Fidds. I actually only have one class with him this semester, which is a shame. But I do see Preston in my Statistical Physics in Biology class, so that’s nice. I don’t really know why he’s taking it, but he said he wanted to give it a shot – he’s actually been pretty cool lately, it’s a shame you’re not here to see it._

_Anyway, how are you? Are you good? How is it traveling with the band? ~~Is Rick nice?~~ Are they treating you well? ~~Do you miss me?~~ It’s been over two months now since you left. ~~When are you coming home? Are you coming home? Please come home. I miss you. I need you. I lov~~_

Ford groans and damn near collapses over his laptop. Eventually he draws back just enough so he can eye the open e-mail on his screen with contempt. He doesn’t know why he’s even doing this. He’s sent Stanley several e-mails and he hardly ever gets a response. And when he does, it’s always something short and to the point. Always just something generic like, ‘glad to hear you’re doing well’ usually followed by a ‘we’re in this city or that city’ and then closed out with his name. No words of encouragement as far as his coming back, no sentiments, just plain facts.

Honestly, Ford doesn’t know what to make of it. Stan thought they needed some time away from one another, some room to breathe. Alright, sure, fine, whatever – but it’s been over two months now! Two months! Isn’t that long enough? He doesn’t understand why Stan is still gone. He doesn’t understand why Stan is being so tight lipped about everything. Initially Ford had thought that perhaps his father had convinced Stanley of Ford’s shortcomings, but then he’d talked himself out of that, because that can’t be true – can it?

He’d just been overly emotional at the time, back when Stan first announced his intentions to leave. Everything spiraled up and fell down on them so quickly; they’d been recovering from it all. Their father was like that. Filbrick Pines was a massive storm you needed time to recover from. Ford understands this better than most. This time, apparently, he’d come down hard on Stanley. Whatever their father had said or done had really knocked Stanley for a loop, so he’d left.

And Ford accepted it, he really did, because he understood how sometimes you needed time to yourself to go off and lick your wounds. Stan blamed himself for not knowing how much Ford was abused, but Ford doesn’t blame him at all. Ford did an excellent job of hiding it. He spent hours in public libraries, combing through books, doing research – anything to take his mind off the hot hands that tugged and pulled. Hands that hit. He’d used distractions and studies like band aids to his wounded body, his damaged pride and he became a master of hiding. So he gets it – Stan needed some time to hide, to recoup.

But that time has to have passed by now. Two months doesn’t seem like a long time spoken aloud, but living it…it feels like an eternity. Each day drags into the next, weeks crawl by, hours move like sludge and Ford feels crushed under the weight of it. He wants his brother back. He wants his lover back. He wants it all and he wants it right this second and it’s tearing him up inside. He doesn’t want to wait anymore and the only thing that keeps him from dropping everything and looking for Stanley is that he doesn’t want to make things worse.

He worries he will. He worries that if he goes to Stan and begs him to come home, he’ll not only look pathetic, but that he’ll set Stanley off. That Stanley will be even more aggressive in his need for this forced separation. So Ford tries to console himself with patience, with the idea that Stanley will return. But days like today…it doesn’t feel like he will. Hence why Ford came up with the idea of e-mailing him again. Maybe tip off in subtle hints that he thinks it’s time Stan came home.

But the e-mail is proving to be more difficult to put together than he thought. He just can’t seem to think of what to say without sounding stupid. Everything he types just seems lame. He decides to put it aside for now, knowing that he has to get to class. He arrives right on time for Mr. Richard’s course and while he normally eats up every word today he’s just… too distracted. His thoughts are still lost on the e-mail, on Stanley, so it comes as a shock when the student next to him gives him a brisk shake.

He blinks and looks at the guy only for him to point up front. Mr. Richards is looking right at Ford, “Are you finally with us, Mr. Pines?”

“Oh, huh – wha-?” Ford replies dumbly and the whole of the class laughs. Mr. Richards sighs, but it’s clear he’s not upset as he says, “I have been calling on you for quite a while now, young man! I was telling the class about your very imaginative, but quite excellent, essay on the theory of interdimensional travel.”

“Oh, um, thanks?” he returns and winces, hating how dense he sounds. Mr. Richards doesn’t seem to mind though, instead gesturing him forward, “If you would be so kind, Mr. Pines.”

Ford blinks, confused, but does as directed. He rises and walks towards the front of the classroom. Mr. Richard beams, “As I was saying, there were two essays submitted last week that I found to be standouts and – interestingly enough – both were based around the same subject. Now, these essays were not carbon copies, no, no, no! They were both close in theme, but with deferentially opposing views on the topic in question. One was written by Mr. Pines here and the other was written by one of my late admission students. Mr. Cipher?”

Ford freezes, stunned, as Bill saunters forward. Bill is still wearing a get-up similar to what he wore to the frat party. He flashes them both a razor sharp smile, “Awww teach! You big ol’ flatterer! You’re making me blush!”

Mr. Richards just beams while Ford glares at Bill. But if Bill is at all affected by this, he doesn’t show it. He just looks out over the large symposium of students as if he was made for the spotlight. Mr. Richard clears his throat, “Now, I’ve brought these two exemplary students forward in order to highlight your next assignment. I want you to work in pairs and come up with a theoretical invention that utilizes one of the topics we’ve discussed in our most recent chapter.”

Ford vehemently starts shaking his head once the words ‘work in pairs’ is said. The action grows in intensity as Mr. Richards barrels on, “Considering how evenly matched Mr. Pines and Mr. Cipher’s works are, I’ve decided to place them in one team. The rest of you may break up into your chosen groups accordingly.”

The students make a lot of noise as they begin milling about, forming pairs and starting their project. Ford dashes towards Mr. Richard’s, eyes pleading, “Mr. Richard’s, sir, I can’t-!”

“Oh, but you _can_!” Bill cuts in gaily as he throws one arm around Ford’s neck, hugging him close while simultaneously shaking him violently. He still has on that damned eye-patch and his one exposed eye locks on Mr. Richard’s, “Don’t you worry, Professor! Me and ol’ Fordsy here are gonna write you the best paper you’ve ever read! It’ll totally knock your socks off!”

Mr. Richards laughs broadly, “Great! I look forward to it!”

Bill neatly drags Ford off, grinning the whole way, “Didja miss me? Admit it, you missed me!”

Ford struggles to get out of his grip, face flushed, “Hardly! Let go of me!”

“Your wish is my command, Sixer!” Bill promises and he lets him go. Ford fixes his ruffled clothes and readjusts his beanie on his head, scowling, “Do _not_ call me that!”

“Call you what?”

“Sixer! Don’t you _ever_ call me that and don’t you ever touch me again! I do _not_ want to work with you!”

Bill’s one eye instantly looks teary, “Really? Why not?”

“Why not?!” Ford sputters, “Why not?! Are you kidding me?! You-you _drugged_ me, Bill! You let one of your friends drag me - unconscious, I might add! - off to a private bedroom so that they could-! Could-!”

“Could what?” Bill asks in this cloyingly innocent tone that completely rankles Ford, “You _know_ what he was going to do! He-he was going to-to,” Ford struggles to put it into words, because he doesn’t want to. Because it fills him with shame. But he forces himself to continue, “He was going to have his…his way with me!”

“What?” Bill gasps as if totally shocked, “You think I’d let something like that happen to you?”

Ford huffs, crossing his arms, “Oh, weren’t you?”

“No! Sixxxxx,” he draws this out, recognizing that Ford asked him not call him ‘Sixer’ and deciding halfway through to change nicknames, “xxxurgh, IQ! Yeah, IQ! You gotta believe me! I would’ve never let that happen!”

When Ford still looks unconvinced, he argues, “C’mon – does that sound like something I’d do?”

Ford frowns, realizing he can’t say for sure. He actually doesn’t know Bill all that well. Frankly, the frat party in general is kind of a blur. Most likely due to the drugs and he’s just about to bring this up again when Bill cuts in, all soothing, “Look, maybe you and I got off on the wrong foot. A party’s not the best place for a meeting of the minds. How’s about you and me start fresh, huh? Clean slate?”

As if to emphasis his point he goes towards the wipe board at the front of the classroom and runs a hand along it. Ford rolls his eyes, “I don’t know…”

“Just gimme a chance! I promise I can win you over,” Bill assures him, “After all, the teach put us on this assignment together ‘cause we have similar ideals. We can work together! Be partners! We’ll make something totally nifty! After all, if you can understand the ideas behind interdimensional travel, then I’ll just bet you’d be a _whiz_ at discussing the concepts of a transuniversal polydimensional metavortex!”

These words make stars appear in Ford’s eyes. He _would_ be great at discussing that! Still…

Bill holds out one hand, a smile on his face, “Look, I promise, alright? Nothing shifty! Just science.”

“Just science?” Ford questions and he eyes his hand with trepidation.

“Yeah and it’s allllllllllllll theoretical, right? What can it hurt?”

Ford bites him bottom lip than nods to himself. It _is_ just theoretical – what can it hurt? He shakes Bill’s hand and they get to work.

 

+

 

As much as Ford didn’t want to work with Bill, he has to admit…it’s…kind of fun? Bill’s a surprisingly good partner and they work out a very good rough draft for their project.  They’ll have to refine it over the next few days, but Ford wouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t put him on a better path towards his first PhD. Although he does discover fairly early on that Bill has indeed come to him for a nefarious reason. Though not at all one Ford expects.

They’re working on the project when, out of the blue, Bill asks, “So you work at that coffee joint, right?”

Ford blinks, startled, “Uh, yes?”

“There’s been a bit of rumbling around campus that you guys are putting on some big shindig.”

“Oh…yeeeeah,” Ford draws out the word, uncomfortable with this sudden line of discussion, “Operation Bring Back Sound. It was Shandra’s idea. She calls it Operation: BBS for short. Said it’s going to be a culmination of all our Friday night jam sessions. We’re in the process of trying to reopen the patio now, but it’s been slow going. There’s a lot of work to be done and our boss Toby’s gone. Apparently some agency contacted him about his old Razz Dazzler thing. He’s driving all the way across country for it. To New Jersey no less. Which is weird, because I don’t know why anyone in my home state would-”

“Yeah, sure, whatever, look,” Bill interrupts, “I’m actually a musician myself and I know you’d love to have me play my stuff there.”

“I’d love to-?” Ford starts to repeat question but Bill’s eye just twinkles, that sharp smile taking his face again as he soundly smacks him on the back, “Great! I’ll be there with bells on!”

“No! Whoa, whoa - wait! This is Shandra’s thing; you’d have to ask her!”

“Why would I ask her when I just asked you, Fordsy?” Bill returns smoothly, “You work there and you’re interested, so a deal’s a deal!”

“But I-! I-I didn’t-!”

“Sure you did! Besides, you’ll _love_ my stuff! I call it experimental dubstep! Check this out!” Bill pulls out his cell phone and plays with the screen until an absolutely awful, discordant sound rings out of it. Ford’s face screws up, hands going to cover his ears, “ _Agh_! What _is_ that?! It sounds like a million machines smashing into another and _dying_!”

“Wait, wait! This is the best part! The bass is about to drop!” Bill gloats and, sure enough, the sounds coming from the phone rev up to a near ear splitting level before exploding out into a deep, thudding beat. There’s also a strange tinkling beneath it all and Bill waggles his eyebrows, “You like that bit in the background? That’s me playing the piano – think it gives the piece a bit of class!”

“Piece?”

“The _song_ , IQ! I call it, ‘Skull That’s Always Screaming’! It’s gonna be on my premier album, ‘Weirdmageddon, Volume One’!” Bill puts his phone away, still all smiles, “It’s gonna be a huge hit! Especially when I showcase it at your lil’ Operation: B&B or whatever!”

“It’s Operation: BBS and I don’t think _that_ song exemplifies what Shandra’s looking for,” Ford grouses, thinking how Bill’s song doesn’t bring back sound, so much as decimate it. But Bill is undeterred, “It’ll be great, my crew and I-“

“ _No_ ,” Ford’s voice hitches up an octave as he recalls Eight Ball and Bill rolls his one visible eye, “Fine, my crew and I, minus whichever one of ‘em you think was gonna ‘have his way with you’.”

Bill air quotes the phrase ‘have his way with you’ and Ford’s livid, “It was Eight Ball and that’s _exactly_ what he was going to do and you know it! I won’t have you make light of what could have happened to me and I did _not_ invite you to the event!”

Ford starts gathering up his stuff, “I’m leaving!”

“Aw, c’mon, Fordsy! We’re not even done yet! We haven’t even talked about geographical locations that would have the proper permeance necessary for breaking through dimensional barriers!”

The words slow Ford up, because they’re so thrilling, but he reminds himself what a snake in the grass Bill is. He shakes his head to himself, “No, no. I’ve gotta go.”

“Oh, I get it! You’re off to see that no account brother of yours!” Bill teases and Ford stops, heart thudding hard. Bill must sense the weakness, because he looks like a predator who’s just scented prey, “Don’t know why you’d be in sucha hurry to see a guy who’s disappointed you before.”

“I,” Ford verbally stumbles, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure I do!” Bill looks positively evil now, “I remember that party a whole lot better than you do! I remember how he hurt you, how he went off with those girls and left you all behind.”

Ford frowns, “He-he left because I hurt him first.”

“Wellllllll – I guess _that’s_ true,” Bill hedges and Ford feels an awful stab of guilt, “But hey! It’s not like you chased him off for good, right? You two made up and I’m sure you’re thick as thieves now, but you gotta wonder how long is it gonna be before you two are in the same situation again. After all, siblings bicker.”

The words hit closer to home than Ford would like and it’s clear Bill knows he has his claws in. He sinks them deeper, “Besides, it’s not like you two can be together forever. It’s natural to split off and do your own thing. I’ll just bet someday he’ll meet somebody and those two will sail off into the sunset, get married, have kids – the whole shabang.”

_He’ll meet somebody…_

The words chill Ford’s blood.

Stan _did_ meet somebody. He met Rick. And…they _did_ go off together…

But it wasn’t anything romantic. Right? Stan left because he needed some time. Some time, but it’s been months…months and barely any contact. Ford swallows and reminds himself that this is crazy, that Bill is full of it and that Stanley is coming home. He _promised_. Stan always keeps his promises. But all of this has given him pause long enough that Bill’s worked up a good semblance of an empathetic expression, “Lookin’ kinda blue there, Fordsy. Something happen? You wanna talk about it?”

Ford adjusts his messenger bag over one shoulder and shakes his head as Bill coos, “Oh, don’t be like that. Confide in me! Tell your old pal Bill all your troubles! Or, better yet, we can do more SCIENCE! After all, I _did_ promise! And _I_ keep my promises!”

He says it in this sing song way, as if he just _knows_. Knows about Stan’s own promise and how it has yet to be fulfilled. Ford’s heart is heavy and he finds he misses Stan more than ever. So much so that he sinks back down into his seat because really – where else is he going to go? Back to an empty apartment? True, Fidds might be there, but he might not and one thing’s for sure – Stanley won’t be. And science _is_ a great distraction. Science never lets him down, never leaves.

Seeing Ford retake his seat, Bill glows with triumph, “Now – about that place that might have the proper permeance – you ever hear of a town called Gravity Falls?”

 

+

 

Preston knocks on the door and grins when Fidds opens it, “Ah, Fiddleford, my good man! Can you help me with this?”

Fidds eyes the small hand truck that Preston has behind him. It’s covered with houseplants and he smirks, “What’re these?”

“Just a little housewarming gift,” Preston assures him and Fidds shakes his head, helping him to get it in. They roll it out to the balcony and Preston eagerly swaps the dead plants out for living ones. As they’re moving the pots around, a pack of cigarettes falls out and Preston frowns, picking it up. He shakes the loose pack at Fidds, “Yours?”

“Stanley’s.”

Preston wrinkles his nose, “He’s a smoker?”

“On and off. Tryin’ ta quit.”

Preston’s lips twitch from side to side as he tosses the carton on top of the other items he plans to dispose of. While he works he knows Fidds is looking at him, the weight of the other’s eyes getting to such a point that he can’t help but sigh, “Yes?”

“Yes, what?”

“I can feel your eyes on me, Fiddleford. It’s quite disconcerting.”

“You know, you can call me Fidds. I gave you the go ahead to do so.”

Preston looks a little apprehensive, “All right…Fidds,” he says the name and Fiddleford brightens. Preston has to admit that he feels heartened by the sight as he continues, “I sense you have a question.”

“No question. Just sorta curious as to why you’ve been doin’ all of this.”

“‘All of this?’” Preston echoes with a frown, “Why, whatever do you mean?”

Fidds snorts, “Preston, you paid for the building to get the elevator repaired. You replaced all of our appliances; you even subcontracted someone to give this place a laundry room.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I know about a lotta things,” Fidds adds smoothly and Preston feels his skin heat, “It’s nothing! My father allows me access to funds if I can prove that I am investing them in a worthwhile project. Real estate is worthwhile.”

“The real estate around here ain’t that profitable.”

“Ah ha! _Yet_ ,” Preston stresses, “I’m currently in the process of acquiring the rights to this and several other properties in the area. It has a vast potential to be-”

“Ford isn’t here,” Fidds interrupts and Preston pauses, looking confused, “You can be straight with me.”

“Straight?”

“You like ‘im,” Fidds cuts in neatly, “You gotta helluva whoppin’ crush on the boy.”

Preston’s face takes on a brilliant bright shade of pink as he starts sputtering, “I-I-! Why I-I never-!”

“I seen this before,” Fidds confesses, “With Stan. And with Ford. But Preston…it was them for each other. Always has been.”

Preston swallows thickly and looks away. He focuses his attention on one of the many plants he purchased, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Psh! ‘Course ya don’t,” Fidds teases, but there’s a trace of sympathy in his tone that can’t be ignored, “But let’s just say you did. Stan an’ Ford…those brothers gotta bond. It’s more than familial, more than romantic; it’s something damn near spiritual. ‘S like their souls is tied together. Ain’t nothin’ splittin’ that up.”

Preston doesn’t answer, his fingers quietly tracing the leaves of a fern. Fidds breathes in deep, “My point bein’ – you turned a corner coupla months ago. Pulled that silver spoon outta your mouth and started tastin’ real life. It’d be a shame for it to go back in just ‘cause you chose the wrong horse to bet on.”

“A horse to-? Talk sense, man!” Preston argues and Fidds continues as if he hasn’t said a word, “Ford likes you, Preston. Likes you a lot. But he don’t love you. Never will. And there ain’t nothing wrong with that. Ain’t nothing wrong with you, either – hungerin’ after him, but you need to recognize he’s not attainable. You need to start thinkin’ about lookin’  elsewhere and I wanted you to know I’d be more than happy ta help you. ‘Cause I’ve been thinkin’ of late that you and me are friends.”

This finally gets Preston to look away from the plant. His eyes are wide and his face is so surprised that Fidds chuckles, “That shock you?”

“I…I’ve never had many friends,” Preston confesses, “At least…never any of your caliber.”

“You referencing my hillbilly status?”

“I apologized for that,” Preston grumbles and Fidds laughs. When Preston first started becoming part of their group, he’d made concessions for his past remarks and actions. One of them had been for the many times he’d labeled Fidds a ‘redneck’ or a ‘hillbilly’ and how, one time in particular, he’d made a bet with some of his other fellows snobs that he could touch Fidds without his hands falling off.

For his part, Fidds took it all in stride, but it had rustled the feathers of his fellow friends so the apology had, in many ways, been a blanketed one. But one appreciated regardless and Fidds reaches out, giving Preston a friendly nudge, “Know you did. One of the reasons we are where we are now – friends.”

“Friends,” Preston parrots the word again like it’s a precious commodity. To him, it is. Still, he feels the need to clear the air, “Fiddlef-Fidds,” he corrects himself, “While I appreciate your candor, you should be made aware that I am not, in point of fact, interested in Stanford Pines. I’m a Northwest! Northwest’s aren’t gay!”

He says the phrase gaily, even if it he feels the most deep seated stab at the idiom, “Besides, I am currently courting a very fine and upstanding young woman. Sabrina Smyth-Smith! If you’ll recall, you even met her. I brought her by the establishment you work at.”

“You mean that poor girl you forced into the Press Room and barely talked to because you had heart eyes for Ford the whole time?” Fidds returns and Preston scowls at the words, more than ready to continue his defense when they both hear the front door open and Ford walks in. Upon seeing him, Preston feels his heart skip a beat and mentally curses himself for it. More so when his voice comes out so sparkling, “Ford! Welcome home!”

Fidds shoots him a pointed look even as Ford puts his bag down and walks over to them. He looks at the plants with wide eyes, “What’s all this?”

“A gift! I couldn’t help but notice from my previous visits the atrocity being committed out here. Luckily I have the means to rectify the situation,” Preston holds up one of the plants, “Coleus! Loves the shade, but can do with a bit of sun for a brighter leaf coloring!”

“I don’t know, Preston,” Ford balks, “I’m…kind of a plant murderer. I’ve tried before, but it’s always ended in abject failure. This graveyard you see around you is proof of that.”

Preston puts down the coleus pot to bring up a very dead cactus, “Your work, I take it?”

“I still don’t even know how I did that!” This outcry is so earnest that Preston feels his throat squeeze with affection. _Stop it_ , he mentally chides himself, _stop it, stop it, stop it!_ He clears his throat, “Well, ah, since I’ve made my presence here a little more known, I can watch over them for you. It…it’d be my pleasure.”

This gets him another look from Fidds, but this time Preston returns it. It’s a totally mental conversation – one in which Fidds screams: _What did I just tell you_? And Preston returns with: _It’s nothing! It’s just for the plants, I swear!_ And in many ways, it _is_ just for the plants. Neither Fidds nor Ford knows the true extent of his father’s distaste for flowers. How he’s forbidden Preston from doing anything even remotely connected to botany. Taking care of these plants, watering them, watching them grow – it truly will be a pleasure.

As if to prove this, Preston puts down the cactus and lifts up a fern. He sticks one thumb into the soil and tsks, “This little fellow could actually use some watering. If you gentlemen will excuse me.”

He leaves the two of them to go into the kitchen. He adds water to the pot and tries to get a hold of himself. Fidds’s words still clatter around inside his mind. _You gotta helluva whoppin’ crush on the boy._ Absurd! Preston is straight. Straight, straight, _straight_. He likes women. Their breasts and their…other female parts. Sure, he may have been – ah, a little misguided in his youth, but he knows much better now. He’s grown up.

Rafe had been an…error. An error in judgement. After all, it’s not like he’s ever seen him again. Not that Preston’s looked. Or, if he had…if he’d come up empty handed or if the private detectives he’d covertly engaged found nothing, well…

Preston closes his eyes, rubs at them. Christ. This is not something he wants to think about. It’s too…bleak. Northwests aren’t bleak. Northwests are lively. Lively like the very plant he’s currently watering. He opens his eyes and runs a hand over the ferns delicate leaves, smiling. Plants, flowers…they soothe him, comfort him. And he’s sure they’ll do the same for Ford.

That’s who he should think of. Who he should focus on. Ford and his need for comfort and support. After all, it’s not like his buffoon of a brother is going to provide it for him. The thought takes Preston’s mind straight to the card buried deep in his wallet, the one Shandra gave him. The number for the Flesh Curtain’s manager is written neatly on it, her penmanship superb. Preston’s pulls out the card now and again. He’s even pulled it out and had his cell phone in one hand, but every time he goes to type the numbers he thinks of Ford’s face.

Ford just…looking at him and smiling. Looking at _him_. Will he still give Preston the time of day once his other half returns? Other half – that’s a laugh. Ford is a genius and Stanley, Stanley’s just…he’s just…

Preston rubs at his chin. Stan hit him, damn near broke his jaw. He’s a Neanderthal. What can Ford possibly see in him? What can Shandra? Fidds – everyone? Everyone seems to adore the bounder! Why?

 _ou could find out_ , his thoughts whisper, like an angel on his shoulder, _you could bring him back. Imagine how Ford would look at you then, smile at you._

 **Yes, he’d smile** – his thoughts continue, but now they have more a devilish tone to them – **for Stanley. Ford will thank you oh so politely and then he’ll pull up stakes. He’ll disappear off into the sunset with that beast. You’re like the other fellow, hmm? The one who lost the beauty? And it wouldn’t be the first time, would it? Honestly, you should get used to it, Preston. After all, as you’re so fond of saying – you’re a Northwest. And Northwests stand alone.**

But Preston doesn’t _want_ to stand alone. Not anymore. He’s so tired of it. He’s so sick of being lonely. He likes filling the spot Stanley vacated, he likes having attention from these fellows – Ford most of all. But if Stan comes back…

He doesn’t feel very comforted by what Shandra and Fidds have said. What he really should do is confront Ford on the matter. Yes! He should just come clean; put all his cards out on the table! He nods to himself, deciding this is the best course of action. It’s certainly the most honorable one, and honor is important to him. Honor is one of the utmost qualities of a true Northwest!

Feeling buoyed by this, he plans on returning to the balcony only to see that Fidds has moved on to the front door. He has his jacket in one hand as he eyes Ford, “You sure?”

Ford nods, “Go! Go see, Susan! I’ll be fine! It’s not like I’m some invalid!”

Fidds doesn’t look very convinced and Preston speaks up, “Are you leaving?”

“Thinkin’ ‘bout it,” Fidds rumbles, “Susie texted me. Her shift got cut and she was wonderin’ if I was free. We haven’t really had much of a chance to see one another of late and she was thinkin’…” he trails off, gaze directing itself back to Ford, “But we were gonna watch a boxing match tonight.”

“I can do it!” Preston volunteers and he quickly deposits the plant back outside, “I can stay here! I like watching a good round of fisticuffs just as much as the next fellow!”

Fidds’s eyebrows rise as Preston faux boxes the air at this announcement. Ford sees it and smirks, “Yeah, see? I got a sitter, Dad! Go on and get out of here! Your date’s waiting.”

“Wish I was yer Dad,” Fidds confesses, “If I was, I’d spoil you beyond belief.”

Ford’s eyes twinkle, “That mean you’re going to bring me back a doggie bag? I could go for some of Susan’s deserts, if she’s got any lying around.”

He grins, “You know she does. Sweet girl like her; loves drowin’ people in sugar, ‘less you’re a diabetic – than she just cooks up something more fittin’ to your needs.”

Preston looks intrigued, “Can she make macarons? So hard to find good macarons in the States.”

“Boy, she can make a macaron that’ll make you cry, it’ll taste so good,” Fidds boasts, “Me, I’m more of a fan of her pies – but that’s the southern boy in me. Grew up with apple pies, pecan pies – and I tell ya, every one she’s makes puts my Momma’s to shame. Not that either of you ever heard that, seein’ as I’d like to keep my head attached to my shoulders, thank you.”

“I take it Mrs. McGuckett would not approve?”

“Aw, heck no. She approves of a good pastry chef, but she’s the competitive sort. She hears me praising my girl’s stuff over hers…” he closes off with a whistle as he dons his jacket. He opens the door; looking meaningfully at them both, “Guess I’m off then. You two fella have a good night.”

They wish Fidds goodbye and settle in on the futon. Preston replaced Ford and Stan’s sad little television with a new one. It’s a sleek flat screen affixed to the wall. At first Ford refused to take it. But Preston was insistent, deeming that the television was the least he could do for his previous bullying. And while Ford was adamant that actions and words were far more valuable to him than trinkets, he found it difficult to turn down the offering. Especially since Preston had it mounted and installed before Ford could blink.

There were also great benefits to the higher quality item – mainly the option to order pay-per-view, something that would’ve been impossible on the old Goodwill boob tube.  Ford places the order, reminding Preston that he’s done more than enough for him. Besides, it’d been his idea in the first place, Fidds the initial intended recipient of the night in.

“But I’m glad he’s out with Susan,” Ford murmurs, “They deserve all the happiness in the world.”

He sounds so forlorn and Preston swears he can feel the card in his wallet burning him. He clears his throat and thinks about bringing up the thoughts he had in the kitchen, thinks about broaching the subject of Stan’s possible return when the bout starts. He gets distracted by the fight and it’s a good one. The two boxers are equally matched, delivering strong blows. Ford and Preston cheer each on, as if they can be heard and when the winner delivers his last blow Preston catapults to his feet, clapping loudly, “I say! Good show! Good show! Did you see that right cross?!”

“I did,” Ford chuckles, still sitting and looking at Preston fondly, “You sound just like Stan. Albeit with less cursing.”

The mention of Stanley dims Preston’s mood slightly and as he slowly retakes his seat, Ford seems unable to help himself, “Stan took boxing classes when we were growing up. Dad shoved him into it. He was worried Stan would be, ah, weak like me.”

“Your father said this to you?” Preston cries, offended, “He said you were weak?”

Ford nods, “Yeah, but he said a lot of things like that. But he…he didn’t mean any of them, you know? He told me once he just said that kind of stuff to…to toughen me up. Build up my self-esteem. He was hard on me so that when the world fights, I’ll fight back.”

“And how has that worked out for you?”

Ford shrugs, “I don’t know. He did the same with Stanley and Stan seems…alright.”

He couldn’t sound any more unconvincing if he tries. Preston scowls and Ford picks up on it, tries to make light of it, “Anyway, I took the class too. The boxing one, I mean. But it wasn’t really something I embraced like Stan did. Stan still boxes now and then – sneaks into various gym’s to hit their punching bags. What about you? When did your interest start?”

“My interest in boxing?” Preston asks to clarify and when Ford nods he explains, “It was one of many athletic activities approved by my father. Being a Northwest is akin to being a living Swiss army knife. I’m expected to be talented in a variety of different fields. Intellectual, physical, spiritual and so on. I’m tasked with mastering all that I can – so long as it’s something worthy of my pedigree.”

“Which botany is not?” Ford questions softly and Preston licks his lips, looking skittish, “No. That field is…unbecoming…dirty.”

“Well, plants _do_ grow out of dirt,” Ford confirms with a wry twist of his mouth and Preston lets out a heavy breath, “Indeed. Besides, boxing is light years different and is merely a sport. Not something I can pursue as a career.”

“Some people do.”

“I cannot,” Preston insists, “Nor would I wish to. While I am well versed in many things, few of them are something I would wish to dedicate my life to. For example, I can also play the violin, but I have no designs on a career in the symphony.”

Ford’s eyes brighten, “You can play the violin?”

Preston nods and Ford laughs, “Man, what _can’t_ you do?”

“I can think of a few things,” Preston says quietly, eyes on Ford. Ford is smiling and so vexingly attractive it makes Preston’s jaw tick. Ford doesn’t see it, still marveling over this recent revelation, “If you can play the violin you should consider performing at BBS – much better you than Bill.”

“Bill?” he questions, blood taking on a chill, “As in Cipher?”

He gets a nod and groan, Ford rubbing a hand over his beanie, “Yeah, I’m paired up with him in Mr. Richard’s class. He’s trying to talk his way into the event. Apparently he’s a DJ or something – does this godawful dubstep and I think I inadvertently invited him, but-”

“He can’t come,” Preston cuts in, voice offering no room for rebuke, “And you should not work with that rapscallion!”

“Trust me, I don’t want to,” Ford assures him, “But we got thrown together by the teacher and I have to admit – he _does_ know his science. The project we’re working on is completely hypothetical in nature, more of a creative writing exercise. I don’t know why he’s interested in it, but I started theorizing about the idea of other dimensions long ago. My curiosity was stoked again around Halloween when Fidds, Stanley and I started discussing the idea of alternate universes. After all, it’s not like alternate dimensions is far off from-”

“Alternate universes?” Preston interjects and Ford nods, “Yeah, like – a universe where we’re all monstrous creatures or something. Like…maybe I’m a sphinx or something. And Stan’s like…a gargoyle or a werewolf, I don’t know.”

“What would Fidds be?”

“Probably a wizard.”

“Wizards aren’t exactly monstrous creatures, are they?”

“Not everything has to be monster oriented. Like Susan? She’d probably be a fairy and Shandra would be like, a siren or succubus or something.”

“And myself?”

“High elf,” Ford laughs, “You’d have those pointy ears and long robes. Or maybe a unicorn or a phoenix – something super flashy.”

“I’m not flashy!” Preston says this as if it’s the height of insult and Ford laughs, “Okay, sure, Pres. Whatever you say. How about you come up with a world? It’s fun!”

“I don’t know,” he looks doubtful.

“Come on, just try.”

They sit there, quiet for a while and Preston rubs at the back of his neck, eyes sad, “All that comes to mind is a world I would never wish to be a part of. One in which…”

He stops and looks so torn that just as Ford’s about to tell him that he doesn’t have to say more, he does, “One in which I become my father. In which I wield the bell over my child and…”

He can’t say anymore. Just the thought leaves him cold. For all he knows, it can still happen. Maybe it’s too late for him. Maybe it’s a part of who he is, who he’s destined to become – a mirror image of his father. A rich, overbearing tycoon. A tyrant. He must look rather desolate, because Ford gently touches his shoulder as he consoles him, “Preston, I don’t think that world exists,”

Preston looks at Ford’s hand, wishes desperately he could cover it with his own. Instead he merely gives a weak shrug, “You give me far more credit than I deserve, Pines.”

Silence rises up between them again as Ford withdraws his hand. They sit there for a while, neither breathing a word until Ford murmurs thoughtfully, “Well, while I don’t think that world exists, I will say that if it does, you’d probably have a hideous mustache in it.”

“A hideous-?” Preston is shaken from his distress by these words. Ford is smirking, clearly happy to have introduced a lighter subject and Preston follows along, sputtering with great exaggeration, “What is so wrong with wanting a mustache? One of your very best friend’s has a _beard_!”

“And it’s a very nice beard,” Ford agrees, “But a mustache? Not many people can pull that off. I think you’d look pretty silly with one – no matter how you style it. I mean – what are you thinking? Handle bar? Or is it curled up at the tips?”

“Yes, yes – I see,” Preston grins in amusement, but Ford presses on, “Or would it be a big Magnum P.I. number? Maybe Mr. Moneybags Monopoly lip hair? Please, please, _please_ tell me not a Charlie Chaplin one.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Thank you, I shall take that as a compliment!”

“I suppose, in this case, it is one,” Preston laughs but then he just as quickly turns serious, “However, we’ve gone quite off the rails – I still say you should steer clear of Cipher.”

“Again, love to, but we have this project to complete. He told me today about this place called Gravity Falls and he – what?” Ford draws up short at the expression on Preston’s face and Preston reveals, “It’s just…I never thought I’d hear you mention it. My family founded that town.”

“Really?”

“Well, reportedly. There’s been some contention over the matter,” he gets to his feet once more, stretching his legs. They’ve been sitting on the futon for quite a while and the hour is getting late. He knows he needs to return to the frat house, but first, “Regardless, while it’s a lovely hamlet, it should have no relevance to your work with Cipher. You should endeavor to close out your business with him post haste.”

“I’m aware, Preston,” Ford gets to his own feet and his tone has taken on a tinge of annoyance, “Trust me, I can handle myself.”

 _Can you?_ Preston wonders, but he doesn’t say this aloud. He’s conscious of Ford’s irritation and doesn’t wish to provoke it further, yet recognizes that while Ford claims to be self-proficient, history shows otherwise. First there was the event at the party, then – after Stan left – it was a trial for Ford to return to normal. If this even _is_ normal. After all, while Preston might not like it, he can always sense that inner sadness Ford carries.

He’s incomplete. And he’s incomplete because Stanley is missing. They truly are halves of one another – not whole without the other present. Yes, they can stand on their own; they’re strong enough to do that, but together…well, they’re just better off together. Complete. Preston knows it, recognizes it, and he hates it. He hates it, he hates it _, he hates it_. He longs for it to be otherwise, but it’s not. Maybe in another universe…

The card seems to burn again and he rubs at one back pocket of his khaki’s, feels the slight bump where his wallet rests. Ford needs his protector and while Preston would love to fill the role, he knows another person who is far more qualified. A person who is only a phone call away. But he doesn’t have to do the phone call just yet…right?

The patio’s not quite ready – a few more days at most. And within those precious days…

“Um, so…Ford,” Preston hates how pathetic this is starting off, but he plows onward, “I’ve had a thought, just now, and I, uh…well, I’ve accustomed myself, somewhat, to your way of life – been with you to your Diner and here in your quaint apartment and what have you and it-it occurs to me that you’ve never experienced my way of living.”

Ford’s shaken from his disgruntlement, “Your way of living?”

“Yes! I was thinking maybe…maybe this Friday you would honor me with your presence at one of my favorite high end restaurants? Perhaps we could even take in an Opera?”

“Me living the rich and fancy life?” Ford muses and then he grins, “Sure, why not? It’ll be fun!”

“Excellent! I shall make the necessary arrangements!” Preston grins, even as he feels a pang within him. This will be it then – one last time. One last hurrah before…

 _Maybe it won’t be_ , the angelic voice returns, _he’ll still be your friend after, right? He won’t just abandon you._

Preston dearly wishes he was convinced of this – he truly does.

 

+

“You ready, pumpkin?”

“Rea’y!” Beth replies brightly, bobbing her head madly. Stan chuckles and checks over her make-up one last time before he goes out to the front of the stage. There’s a collection of VIP fans up front. Their overly expensive gold tickets promises them several features – seats up front for the concert, a chance to meet the band backstage and now this.

Stan hasn’t quite discussed this, uh, new feature with Rick – but considering he was put in charge of Beth’s care, he doesn’t see any harm in it. Besides, he’s pretty damn sure it’s going to be an excellent way to make a few extra bucks. He clears his throat when he gets out front, “Ladies and gentlemen! You know me, band darlin’, Mr. Mystery!”

He gets several claps and hoots of applause. Fans know who he is – in many ways, he’s become an unofficial fourth member of the ‘Flesh Curtains’. Just last week in Anaheim they played one of his songs! ‘Ready to Sin’ was very well received…even if it did give him a slight pang to play it, mind immediately going to Ford. But he distracted himself with the recognition – with the applause. People loved his song – a song _he_ composed! And Rick and the others had really brought some heat to it, some soul. It’d been beyond Stan’s wildest dreams.

He’d always said that playing music was just a hobby for him, not something he wanted to make into a career, but now…anything seems possible. He shakes his head to himself, getting right back to it, “As you know, I always bring fans novelties and incentives the likes of which they’ve never known! Things other so called ‘bands’ would _never_ offer their VIPs! With this in mind, I present to you - Tiny Rick!”

Beth, like a pro, trundles out right on cue. She comes out from behind the curtain wearing an outfit that’s an exact replica’s of Rick’s. Tiny black vest and pants, blue shirt beneath. She’s got on the skull belt (it’s purposefully too big for her – just enough to give her that right amount of the ‘precarious’ look) and a loose version of the choker. Stan styled her hair so it has that similar swish to it and she was also more than game to let him put a soft felt ‘unibrow’ on her forehead.

She’s got a toy guitar slung around her (the only real difference from Rick’s ensemble – this one is bright pink with a rainbow sticker slapped on the body) and the biggest smile on her face as she holds her tiny arms up in the air and happily screams, “TINY RIIIICK!”

And, just as Stan thought (hoped) they would, the fans go nuts! Delighted cries fill the auditorium. Girls cooing about how ‘cute’ and ‘precious’ she is, guys mumbling under their breath that they ‘guess it’s pretty cool’, but it’s said in that way where it’s clear they actually think it’s _awesome_. And Beth?

She’s a natural! Loving the attention, she giggles and fiddles with the fake guitar. She starts half singing words – not really songs per say, but there’s something to be said for how lyrical they are. Every now and then she stops, squatting down as if tired, only to shoot up again and shout ‘Tiny Rick’! She stomps her feet and walks in circles and the audience eats it up. Stan’s grin is a killer as he moves in for the death blow, “So? Who’d like pictures with this precious lil’ angel? Only sixty bucks a pop!”

Wads of cash rise into the air, a sea of green that shakes and waggles as Stan laughs, rubbing his hands together. He’s beyond gleeful as he collects payments and takes photos with an old Polaroid he got at a thrift store. He makes sure to point out that the photos are more ‘authentic’ and ‘retro’ coming from an older camera. The fans adore all of it.

He even milks them for a bit more, offering autographs for a twenty. Autographs are basically Beth scribbling all over the picture, but it doesn’t matter – everyone’s far too enamored with her to say a word. Well, no words past ‘aw! So CUTE!’. By the time the two of them leave the stage they’ve pulled in a nice, tidy sum of eight hundred and forty-seven dollars – the uneven amount coming from tips, because people actually _tipped_ if Beth went above and beyond in the cuteness department.

Which she occasionally did – blowing kisses or snuggling up against someone, playing with their hair. And the best part, is that when all is said is done, the little angel is all tuckered out. She rubs at her eyes and gives a big yawn. She holds up her hands to Stan and makes a grabby motion. He smoothly picks her up, holding her close, “Ya did good, kid. Real good.”

“Mmm, sleepy.”

“I bet. You want to sleep in the RV?”

She gives him a wobbly nod and he chuckles, kissing her forehead. She clings to him as he walks and both are completely unaware they’re being watched, Rick’s eyes on them the whole time.

 

+

 

“All right, sleepy time,” Stan murmurs and he covers her with her favorite princess blanket. She snuggles into the cushions of the RVs singular bed. It’s huge and it used to be solely Rick’s until she arrived. Now it’s hers. She tugs her stuffed toy, Princess Lovacorn, close and lets out a hefty sigh that’s almost too big for her little body. Stan stripped off the costume and the unibrow and she’s back to herself, all blonde and rosy cheeked, “Tell story!”

“A story, huh?” Stan teases, “I don’t know…”

“Please, Stan’fy!”

He chuckles, “Wellllll, I suppose. But you gotta agree to be Tiny Rick next week in Fremont.”

“Tiny Rick!” she promises, arms rising up once again and he laughs, shaking his head, “Alright then, what do you want? Some fairy tale? Think your book’s around here somewheres…”

He starts looking for her fairy tale book but she shakes her head rapidly, “No, no!”

“Story ‘bout your Daddy then? You like those,” he confirms. Although, every single time he’s told her a Rick story, he’s had to heavily edit it for her. Hell, for a lot of them he’s had to straight make stuff up, because it’s the only way to fill huge gaps of story that are not appropriate for children. But she shakes her head again and he lets out a grunt, “Well then, what do you want, sweetie?”

“Favorite stories!”

“Favorite stories?” he repeats and he has a sinking feeling he knows exactly what that is and, with a beaming smile, she confirms it, “Ferd! Stan’fy and Ferd!”

He licks his lips, wincing, “You sure you don’t want something else?”

Another vicious shake of her head and he knows he’s screwed. One time when he’d been watching her, she’d been a down right terror. Screaming and crying, hair pulling – full on rampaging toddler mode and he’d only broken through it by shouting how he’d tell her a story about himself and Ford. It slowed her up enough that he’d waggled his fingers at her, remarking, “And Ford’s got six fingers on each hand - so that means twelve times the fun…or something…”

It’d worked. She’d settled down (thank god) and he’d told her a story about him and Ford. It was nothing fancy, just a recount of their trip out to California, but she adored it. And ever since then, she’s made it a goal to hear more.

Sometimes he can deflect her with fairy tales or stories about Rick, but every now and then she gets like this. Determined. It’s a very Rick-like trait. It’s very annoying. He runs a hand through his hair. God it’s long now. It’s getting damn near past his shoulders. He pulls out a hair tie from his pocket and quickly draws it back, makes it into a sloppy bun as he relents, “Fair enough. Ford and Stan, it is.”

She claps her hands and hugs the unicorn plush closer as he starts, “I ever tell you about the time I was flunkin’ outta school?”

Beth shakes her head and he gives a tiny grin, “Okay, so – we were in high school, which is pretty much a big kid’s school. Do you know what school is?”

He gets a nod so he resumes the tale, “Well in school you get grades and grades are these letters that say how well you’re doing. You always want to get an ‘A’ but I never got any of those. Best I got was a ‘B’, like Beth – your name begins with a ‘B’, did you know that?”

“Yusss,” she slurs and it’s obvious the sleepiness is settling in, her eyelids heavy.

“Well, one time not only did I not get a ‘B’, I got ALL ‘F’s’ and ‘F’ is a bad letter. Do you know a word that begins with ‘f’?”

“Fuck!” she chirps loudly and he hisses, shaking his hands at her, “Shhh! No, no! You, uh, you shouldn’t say that, okay?”

“Daddy says it.”

“I know, but you shouldn’t, alright?”

“Why?”

He struggles to think of a good reason she can understand, but instead she just chimes in, “Ford begins with an ‘F’.”

It’s one of the rare times she’s said his name correctly and it makes Stan’s throat constrict, “You’re right, it does.”

“Is Ford bad?”

Stan licks his lips, eyes downcast, “No, sweetie. He’s not.”

“But you’re not wit’ him.”

“Yes, but it’s not because he’s bad, it’s…” Stan trails off then offers her an overly goofy grin, “Hey! Who’s telling the story here, huh?”

He tickles her a little and she giggles, squirming about. He draws back and sighs, “Now, as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted! I got a bunch of ‘F’s’ and my dad was…unhappy. He said some…mean things.”

“Your daddy was mean to you?”

“He was,” Stan admits, “But that’s not important. What’s important is that Ford noticed. See, sometimes my brother can be a little…self-occupied. He doesn’t mean to be, he just gets lost in that big head of his. But when he notices I’m sad, he’s one of the best guys in the whole universe and he proved it that day! He talked me into going out with him – we went and got milkshakes at my favorite ice cream joint and he drove me far out to this field.”

Stan smiles to himself as the memory becomes clearer, “I’d never been there before, didn’t even know it existed. But Ford’d been there before with his astronomy club. Turns out he snuck some blankets into the trunk of my car and he laid them out on the grass. Made a nice, soft little bed. It was a nice night – cool but not cold, good breeze.”

He closes his eyes, picturing it perfectly, “And the sky…there were no lights for miles, so it was a clear, midnight blue. And there were stars. So many stars and the moon was big. Really big. Full to bursting and glowing bright white. Ford and me lay out on those blankets, just inches from one another and I could feel the heat of him and he…”

He pauses, swallows thickly, “He was pointing out stars to me, telling me what they were called and showing me constellations and then he just whispered at me not to worry about pops, about mom or school…not to worry about nothin’, just like those stars up there. Then he took my hand in his and our fingers intertwined, knitted together so perfectly like they always do and he gave my fingers a squeeze…told me that he was there for me – that he was constant like those stars and the moon, and that there might be some changes, some flickers of intensity, but he’d always…”

Stan opens his eyes and sees that Beth is fast asleep. He ignores how his heart is pounding, throat full. He wonders when she passed out. It doesn’t really matter. It’s probably for the best. He’s not sure how he would have continued the story, the memory. He doubts it would be appropriate to end it with how much he’d wanted to kiss Ford then, how his overwhelming desire and love for his brother had come over him like a sickness.

He hadn’t kissed him then. He’d wanted to – god, how he’d wanted to. But he hadn’t. Instead he’d squeezed Ford’s hand back and they stargazed until they were too tired to do it anymore. They drove home in silence, went to bed and then the next day went right back to school. And Stan did his best to do better, did his best to drum up grades better than ‘F’s’, because he couldn’t take another round of his father yelling at him about what a worthless moron he was.

And that was putting it lightly. His father called him worse – much, much worse. He let him know, in no uncertain terms, that he was inadequate. But it hadn’t been within leagues of what he’d dealt out the last time Stan saw him. Those words still circle up to bite him now again. About how they’re so similar, about how he’s going to drag Ford down into the dirt with him. Not to mention his pointless existence. Ford was unwanted, but Stanley? He’s _worse_ than that.

Lots of kids hear about how they’re unplanned, but Stanley’s something lower than that even. At least according to his father. His father who said he _admired_ him, who said he was the ‘better’ son. His father – the child beating, abusive monster –  told him that he was proud of the fact that Stan managed to worm his way deep into Ford’s life, that he’d set himself up for Ford to take care of indefinitely.

How could Stan tell Ford about that? The answer was simple – he couldn’t. So, here he is now. Trying his best to live his life as profitably as possible. Trying to prove to himself that his father’s wrong. That’s he’s nothing like him. That he can survive without Ford. That he doesn’t have to be a burden to his twin, how he’s capable all on his own. And he’s proving that – he _is_. Even if he’s miserable. Even if he misses Ford each and every single day. Even if he just…he wants to go home. To Ford. Ford is his home.

But he can’t. His father threw him out of that. His father pushed him into realizing that he shouldn’t think that way. Stan gets up as quietly as he possibly can. He presses a gentle kiss on Beth’s forehead before leaving the RV, where he runs straight into Rick. Rick is leaning back against the RV, a lanky shadow, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his tight leather pants, “Tiny Rick, huh?”

Stan scratches at the back of his head, looking sheepish, “Oh! You, uh, you saw that, huh?”

Rick stands up straight and crosses his arms, eyeing him. He doesn’t say a word and this is unusual for Rick. It also makes Stanley extremely nervous, “Um, ain’t you supposed to be up on stage right now?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. ‘S good to-to make the audience wait. Gets-gets ‘em pumped,” Rick argues, “‘Sides, I got distracted. Was listening to your story.”

Stan cringes at the thought, embarrassment flaring up hotly inside of him. Embarrassment isn’t an emotion he feels often. Looks like a night for the unusual. He goes to open his mouth to explain, but Rick holds up a hand, halting him, “S-save it. I gotta show to do. We’ll talk about your whoring out my daughter afterwards.”

The words cause Stan’s heart to sink down to his toes, eyes following suit, but then Rick flashes him a teasing smirk, “Never said it’d be a bad thing, Pines.”

His head snaps back up but Rick is already sauntering back towards the auditorium. Stan watches him go with a grin, feeling a little mollified by his last words only to feel his cell vibrate. He pulls it out and there’s a little notification in the top left corner letting him know he’s just received an e-mail. He grimaces. He doesn’t even have to check it to know it’s from Ford. He silently struggles with himself for a while about whether or not he should read it.

Ford’s sent plenty of e-mails and Stan’s read every single one of them, cherished them. And sometimes he’s answered, but he hasn’t said much – what the hell is he supposed to say? He feels so stupid when he looks at the open e-mail screen. That stupid flashing little line and all the blank space…he doesn’t know what in the hell to type. To _say_ because really, it’s more him saying something.

He’s barely articulate in person! Even less so in an online capacity! Texting has never been a problem, but an actual fleshed out expression…it intimidates him. Ford never has that problem though and he accesses his e-mail.

Stan knows he’d be completely lying if he said he wasn’t breathless with anticipation, his desire to have contact with his brother, _any_ contact, overwhelming. He opens the e-mail and reads it, eyes scanning the words hungrily:

_Hey_

_How’ve you been? I’ve been okay – kind of busy. I started the newest semester and most of my teachers are alright. My favorite class is probably Mr. Richard’s Experimental Physics II course. Lots of really cutting edge stuff there. The only drawback is that I don’t share that class with Fidds. I actually only have one class with him this semester, which is a shame. But I do see Preston in my Statistical Physics in Biology class, so that’s nice. I don’t really know why he’s taking it, but he said he wanted to give it a shot – he’s actually been pretty cool lately, it’s a shame you’re not here to see it._

_Anyway, how are you? Are you good? How is it traveling with the band? Are they treating you well? It’s been busy here. We’re in the process of cleaning out the patio at work. Shandra’s setting up a big event there, Operation: Bring Back Sound or Operation: BBS for short. We’re going to have a lot of local musicians. It’s too bad you’re not here to play it – maybe you and the band could come?_

_It would be nice to see you. It’s been a while. But I’m sure you guys have a busy schedule, so, no pressure. But if you could come by, that’d be great. Our room is still like you left it, so you could crash here if you wanted. Lots of your stuff is here too – comics and clothes and such. It’s all just waiting for you until you return. I’m waiting too._

_All my best,_

_Ford_

Stan reads it again and again. _I’m waiting too_. Those simple words slice through him. Ford is waiting for him; Ford wants him to come back. He shouldn’t want that, right? He should be moving on. He should be recognizing that he’s better off without Stanley. He should be talking about his many accomplishments, all the ones he’s managed without his brother hanging all over him.

But there’s nothing like that at all. Hell, the only change Stan can see is Preston and doesn’t that just rub him the wrong way. Preston Northwest. How can Ford be okay with that jerk hanging around? Doesn’t he remember all the crap that jackass said to him? How can he forgive him? There’s no way on earth that Preston just woke up and decided to be ‘pretty cool’. Stan smells a scam – maybe Preston’s drawing Ford in close so he can stab him in the back. Or maybe, just maybe…

No. He laughs to himself. No, no, no. Preston doesn’t like Ford like that. Preston’s straight and a douche and Ford would never fall for that anyway. If Preston was interested in him like that, which he’s not, because he can’t be, because…

Stan feels the worst kind of jealousy rolling through him and he tries to squash it. There’s no reason to be jealous, because that’s not what’s happening! Besides, he should be focusing more on Ford’s inability to move on. How he needs to convince Ford to concentrate more on his education and his future. How he needs to make sure that his twin stays propelled towards the light and as far away from him and the dirt as possible.

But how is he going to do that? How is he going to convince Ford to give up the ghost? To accept that he and Stanley need to part ways for good? Stan doesn’t want to hurt him, he really doesn’t. But if a little pain will save him a lot of pain in the long run, Stan’s willing to make that sacrifice. He’ll make _any_ sacrifice, if it means protecting his brother. Even if he’s protecting Ford from himself.

Stan puzzles over this as he hears the crowd screaming in the distance, as he waits for the show to draw to a close so he can talk to Rick. And that’s when it hits him.

Rick.

Rick is his answer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monsterfalls!Au is credited to a lot of hands - none of which are mine. Here is a [link the FAQ page for it.](http://cellard00rs.tumblr.com/post/142801569000/monsterfalls-complete-info-faq)


	22. Chapter 22

So, Rick has moved from just liking Stan to _really_ liking Stan.

And it’s a huge problem, because Rick knows how this shit works and it does _not_ have a happy ending. To be frank, he doesn’t even want it to. The whole romance and love horseshit – that’s not him. Now fucking? Yeah, that he can get behind that - big time. But he knows Stan isn’t built like that. He probably thinks he is – hell, he even shared time with Jimmy, but that was no doubt clearly spelled out to him as a limited time offer.

Jimmy’s involvement is like that of a shepherd – he guides people where they need to go. He educates, he shows his partner a good time and then he moves on. Rick can respect that. Honestly, he’s not too far from it himself. He likes simple, no commitment sexual encounters, preferably with more than one partner. His band mates have even commented on it – how they don’t like to room near him because the sex he engages in sounds damn near violent in its intensity. Headboard smacking against the wall, louds wails of pleasure, bedsprings squeaking out ragged rhythms – he fucks the same way he plays the guitar. With a wild, uncontrollable passion.

But he doesn’t want anything more than that. He had it once…sort of. Beth was the result. And he cares for Beth – he really does. Truth be told – she’s probably the only person he actually _loves_. Not that he’ll ever, EVER say those words to her, because emotions – ergh.

Still, she’s precious to him. He can’t believe his genes are responsible for something like her. She’s implausibly cute, a stone’s throw from perfection. A little angel. He knows someday she’ll grow up and he rues that day. Because the moment you start growing up is the moment you start falling apart. The older you get, the more broken you become, the more damaged. He hates to think of that happening to his little girl.

This is why he’s dedicated himself to never thinking about it. Hell, he’s dedicated himself to never thinking about a lot of things. And the best way to accomplish it is through his trusty flask and copious amounts of drugs. And sex. Lots and lots of sex. He could have sex with Stanley, he could. But again, he _really_ likes him.

Which is why he’s going to have to do the most disgusting, vile thing he’s ever done ever in his entire life.

He’s going to talk to him.

Talk to him about his _emotions_.

It makes him throw up a little, which, in his opinion – is a great way to close out a concert. For some reason, loads of girls love him at his most disgusting. The show was a good one – they played a few of their songs (‘Snowball Madness’, ‘Golden Showers’, ‘Lick-lick-lick My Balls’, ‘AIDS!’) and did some rad covers. Judas Priest's ‘Eat Me Alive’, Bill Squire’s ‘The Stroke’, Rufus Wainwright’s ‘Instant Pleasure’ and even Iggy Azalea’s ‘Fuck Love’, because while he doesn’t like her, good lyrics are good lyrics and he can get behind the theme of that song.

Even more so now that he’s searching Stanley out. He finds him cleaning up some sound equipment and he whistles. Stan turns and looks at him so Rick motions him over. When he’s close enough he slings an arm around his shoulder, “C-Come on, band bitch! The guys who-who work this shi- _urp_!-it show got it from here.”

This is true enough; the workers at the auditorium are more than capable of picking up any slack Stan would leave. Birdperson’s gone off to meditate or some shit and Rick’s sure Squanchy’s off having a good squanch like he does after every show, so now’s the perfect time to screw this pooch. He draws Stan close and breathes hot and heavy on him, “Hafta say – like-like how yer playin’ Mommy to my Daddy for Beth. ‘S a good gig – but I think it’s time Mommy got to relax a little, huh?”

Rick knows he’s putting it on a little thick, but that’s just part of it. He has to see how bad this is. He’s gotta set this up just right. Sometimes, because he burps and stutters a little, people forget how fucking _smart_ he is. He’s got a massive intellect or some shit, like – he’s overly blessed (cursed) with big brains AND big balls. As such, he’s got a pretty good idea what Stan’s next move might be. Stan’s been tight lipped around him ever since Beth’s shown up.

Tight lipped around him, but not Beth. Beth’s become something of his unofficial confidant and the problem with confiding in toddlers, is that toddlers are easy to pump for info. Rick knows all about how much Stan misses Ford. He even knows about the whole Pops thing – at least a little bit, but he’d made the mistake of blowing Stan off before he could get more. It couldn’t be helped though – Rick _really_ hates daddy drama.

But he likes Stan enough now that he’s willing to dip his toes in. However, in order to that, he has to outmaneuver the guy. He’s got to be twelve steps ahead. But that doesn’t mean he can’t have some fun first. With this in mind, he shoots Stan a flirtatious look, “Beth’s sleepin’ in the RV, but we can use one of the other trailers. Have ourselves a real good time.”

Stan looks a little apprehensive, “Oh?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking tequila and a couple snorts of some HoppsD27.”

“Hopps-?”

“Drug of my own design,” Rick confides, “Like that Clorthropin X I had you try, but ten times better. No headache afterwards.”

Stan pauses for a split second, so short that if it was anyone else but Rick looking at him, they wouldn’t have caught it. But Rick catches it. He catches that split second before he’s given a glowing grin, “Sure! Sounds great!”

 _Sounds great. Uh huh. Sure. Right_. Rick wants to say this, but he doesn’t. Again, he’s playing the game. Stan’s good alright, probably one of the best Rick’s ever seen. But he’s not Rick. And in the end? Rick always wins. Rick escorts Stan back to the trailer and they settle in to having a good time. They drink too much, laugh too loud, and watch television like it’s a new invention.

They shout at the screen and make snide commentary at everything. Rick’s having one a helluva good time. So much so that he actually forgets his plans for a bit. Stan _has_ been good to Beth. He _does_ deserve something. He gets to his feet and fishes around in some of the cabinets. He has lots of inventions lying around but he’s looking for one in particular. He’s pretty sure it’s in this trailer and not the RV, because it’s not an invention he uses often.

He finds it under a sink and blows dust off of it before going over to Stan. It looks like a big scanner gun and he adjust several knobs on it, “Al-alright, Pines. Take-take yer shirt off.”

Stan looks at him and then at the gun. He’s pretty drunk but not _that_ drunk, “What?”

“Yooo _oourp_! You heard me! Shirt off. I’m gonna give you a present for takin’ care of Beth. Give you that damned tattoo you’ve been wanting.”

Stan mentioned wanting a tattoo a while back, talking about various construction jobs he did and the people he met through them. Apparently one of the guys he’d worked with had offered him a tattoo, but it had never come to fruition. Rick decides to see that it does. Stan eyes the gun even as he takes his shirt off as instructed. Rick has the gun all revved up and ready to go. He draws out his flask and takes a few slugs before putting it away, “See this-this thing here? It-it’ll give you any tattoo you want. Sears it right into your flesh. Fuck lot better than-than some-some dickwad’s needle. Heals instant too. I just-I just scan whatever image you want, then pick a spot and zap!”

He pulls the trigger a couple of times as if to emphasize the point. It hasn’t scanned an image yet, so all it does it put flat burn marks on the carpet. There’s the thinnest trail of smoke each time and Stan’s looking a little skittish about the whole thing, so Rick just smacks his arm, “C-come on, man! It’ll hurt, not gonna lie – but it’ll be quick. Trust yer old-old pal, Rii- _urp!_ -iiick!”

Stan shrugs and reaches into his pocket to draw out his phone. Standing right over him, Rick can see the screen easily and, oh yes, just as he thought – an e-mail from Ford is right there. Beth mentioned ‘Ferd’s’ e-mails. She’d been on his lap, bouncy and happy, and gibbering on about how much fun she has with ‘Stan’fy’, but how he’s so sad. Damn kid’s perceptive – Rick gets it – he’s really fucking perceptive himself.

He normally clouds the fuck out of it with drugs and booze, but sometimes it’s still fucking _there_. And Beth’s not the only one to see that sadness. But she _is_ the only one who knew about the e-mails until she told Rick about it. Apparently Stan even read one to her – some junk about how Ford went to some farmer’s market blah, blah saw your ex-girlfriend blah, blah miss you blah, blah. Beth asked if Stan missed Ford and of course he said 'yes' then immediately followed it with a change of subject – teaching her about farmer’s markets and fruits and vegetables and organic shit.

Which Rick is still worried about, because the last thing on earth he wants is for his daughter to turn into some hippy, hipster douche nozzle. It’s legitimately one of his worst fears. Well, that and her growing up to marry some unemployed jerkoff. But he’s sure that’ll never happen. She’s too smart for that. Regardless, she uncovered the e-mails and he was pretty sure they were still going on. This confirms it. It confirms it and sets a grim realization within him. He really _does_ have to have this talk.

Fuck.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Fuck, fuck, _fuckity fuck!_

He retakes his seat next to Stanley, leaning his head back, eyes on the ceiling, throat working because he reaaaaaally doesn’t want to fucking do this. He hates big emotional talks. But he’ll do it. Because he really likes Stan. Fuck.

Stan draws up a picture on his phone and holds it out, “Can you do this?”

It’s the weirdest fucking design Rick’s ever seen. It’s like a stick figure, but with weird ass legs and dots and waves and some shit. He scowls, “What the fuck is this? Modern art?”

“It’s a sketch,” Stan doesn’t elaborate and Rick has a sinking suspicion he knows _exactly_ who sketched it. But he shrugs to himself. If this is what Stan wants, this is what he’ll get. He draws a little cord from the gun and connects it to Stan’s phone. He messes with both devices and then unhooks them. He adjusts a few more knobs then turns to Stan, “Right. Where-where the fuck you want this sucker?”

Stan turns and pats his bare right shoulder. Rick lifts the gun and presses it to Stan’s skin. He pulls the trigger and Stan yelps. A curl of smoke rises into the air and Rick pulls the gun back to reveal the tattoo (more of a scar, really). It’s a blazing bright red that slowly fades to black, then blue. Stan hisses and reaches up to rub at it but Rick smacks his hand away, “Let-let it set, jackass!”

Stan huffs and draws his hands away, rolling his shoulders. It’s certainly a sight to see. Big bones working smoothly under corded tanned muscle. Rick licks his lips and grins saucily as he reaches out and gently traces the design. It’s healed now and perfectly acceptable to touch. Stan stiffens at the feel of his fingers, sitting more upright. It’s crazy – Rick doesn’t believe in hope. Hope is, without a doubt, one of the most pointless feelings on the emotional spectrum.

Yet here he is…hoping Stan won’t take the bait. But there’s another emotion rolling around in Stan that pretty much beats out hope as the forerunner for the world’s most pointless feeling and it’s clearly what urges him on as he husks, “That tickles.”

“Want me to stop?” Rick teases, tips of his fingers still dancing over sensitive skin. Skin that shifts as Stan leans into him, voice smoky, “No.”

 _Of course you don’t_ , Rick doesn’t say, his mind sighing at the task before him. Well…it’ll have to be done sooner rather than later, right? The gun’s been drawn, might as well pull the trigger. He leans down and traces his lips over the tattoo and he feels Stan shiver beneath him. _Fuck_. Rick reaches down, cups himself and gives his already growing-harder-by-the-second dick a gentle squeeze. _Easy boy_ , his thoughts hiss, _remember what you’re here for_.

His tongue curls out, a silky point that paints over the design, traces it with pinpoint accuracy and Stan sucks in a loud breath, tenses. Rick can’t see his face, but he’ll just bet his eyes are closed. Stan gasps out, “More.”

Rick does more. He sucks at the mark, licks and bites it and then works his way up the back of Stan’s neck, buries his face into the nape of Stan’s neck and he hasn’t even nuzzled there for a second before Stan turns and captures his mouth. This is, by no means, a romantic kiss. Stan’s sucking Rick’s tongue into his mouth, his actions overtly sexual and were it anybody else, Rick would already be bored. He’d be turned off, furious.

But since it’s Stan, Rick’s a little more invested. After all, he promised himself he’d have some fun. So Rick tangles his fingers in Stan’s long hair, tugging viciously, painfully, and Stan just grunts. He draws him closer and they’re well wrapped around one another. Rick knows how far he can go, knows where he can push this, but he’s not going to. He can’t. Because he’s been slowly building this trap and Stan’s inches from setting it off. He squirms against Stan, enjoys the feeling a little longer because why the fuck not?

Pines is a good kisser – it’s just the right amount of damn near violent to really rev Rick’s engines and his hands – big and rough – are grasping at Rick’s arms and his hips. It’s a shame. It really is. They’d probably be dynamite together. But not here, not now, not in this universe.

So, Rick draws back, makes sure he has enough space to maneuver away when he needs to. He splays back against the cushions of the trailer’s couch, and looks up to Stan’s eyes. He can practically read the guy’s thoughts. Stan’s looking down at him and in his eyes…there’s an absence. It’s like he’s disconnecting himself from all of this. Or seeing something else – scratch that, _someone_ else. It’s insulting – the thought that Stan is imagining Ford in Rick’s place.

Rick’s not the kind to be self-conscious. To compare himself to others. He’s hot as hell and he knows it. But he also knows what Stanley really wants – _who_ he wants. It borders on pathetic but, again, Rick really _does_ like him, so he’s gonna give the guy a pass. Besides, there’s something to be said for his cold blooded approach to all of this. How he’s centering himself so deeply in logic, flawed though it may be.

Stan’s not normally the cool, calculating type. He’s fire and passion. But here he is – everything so clearly detailed and outlined in his mind. His plan just awaiting the proper action. He’s psyching himself up for it. Rick knows it. Knows that Stan is probably saying to himself something along the lines of: _You can do this. You can do this. You have to do this. Rick’s a great guy and he’s hot as fuck and he’s willing. The sex’ll be good – great even. He’s wanted it for so long, laid out so many hints. So – just do this, Stanley. Just do it. Just kiss him and fuck him and try not to think about Ford, try not to think about anything. It’ll be fine._

He doesn’t know one hundred percent if these are Stan’s thoughts, but he’s sure they’re pretty damned close. It’s revolting. Rick doesn’t want someone to have to give themselves a pep talk to go through with this. Again, insulting. But the deviousness of it, the borderline manipulating, it’s something he can appreciate, even support. But not in this particular case, where it’s being used against him.

But then, it’s not really being used against him, because he already knows. He’s crafty and clever and leagues ahead of Stanley in this department. It’s like a game of chess and Rick has the winning move; he’s ready to take the king.

So, he looks up at Stan enticingly as he trails a hand up and down his own bare chest. He makes sure to push his vest aside, one hand trailing down to tug his pants down just enough to highlight his happy trail, thumb pushing at the top button, “Like what you see?”

Stan looks down, expression blank and stupid. Rick slowly circles the snare of his trap closer around him, “Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer…”

Another set of dumbfounded blinks and then Stan has his phone out. Rick waits with baited breath, the springs set. Stan takes the photo. The trap snaps and Rick rolls away from Stan in a flash, hand darting out lightning quick to snatch up the phone. He gets to his feet and far away from Stan, whose bemusement falls away. It’s if Stan’s been released from a spell and – like any other trapped animal – he reacts wildly, “What the hell?”

“Y-you know, Pines. I-I gotta say, you-you really disappointed me, man. Thought-thought you we- _urp_!-er better than this.”

“Better than what?”

Rick holds up the phone and shows Stan the photo he took and Stan scowls, “You told me to take that!”

“Ye-yeah, I did, ‘cause I knew you wanted to. You’re-you’re getting’ sloppy. You’re the guy who once tricked-tricked me into a cage for a show even though I told you I’ll lose a bet if I ever die in one ‘o those!”

“You weren’t going to _die_ in it,” Stan argues but Rick continues as if he hasn’t even spoken, “You once-once hustled a bunch’a-bunch’a blue collars outta money by-by pool sharkin’ ‘em! But now here-here you are – playing the oooooooooooooldest trick in the book!”

“Oldest trick in-?”

“C’mon, Pines! You telling me you weren’t gonna send this picture to your brother?” Rick asks but it’s not really a question. It doesn’t have to be. It’s a statement of fact and Stan’s expression confirms it. Rick rolls his eyes, “Jesus! What-what’d I tell you? Pre-predictable! I-I expect more from, you, Stanley! I-I expect some high-high level Ocean’s Eleven con shit. Not-not some ploy from-from some teenage soap opera. What is this? Degrassi High?””

“Degrassi-?”

“It’s-it’s from Canada. Yooo- _urp_!-u you really need-need to expand your horizons, man. Ex-expand your viewing experience. America’s-‘merica’s not the only place with-with an entertainment industry,” Rick deletes the photo of himself and then smashes the phone against one of the walls in the trailer. Stan gets to his feet, “Hey! That was my phone!”

“Should-should be grateful it’s-it’s not your _uuuuurp_! face!” Rick hisses and he draws out his flask, taking a loud drag on it, his lips wet with liquor as he continues, “I’m the user, Pines! Not the used!”

The words draw Stan up short and he blinks, “Wow…those would be good lyrics.”

Rick sticks his bottom lip out and nods, “Yeah, actually,” before snapping out of it to grumble, “Ah! Don’t change the subject! We’re-we’re focusing on your-your cheap attempt to use me to-to…I don’t know, make your brother jealous or push him away or whatever the fuck! A broken phone’s the least of your problems!”

Stan retakes his seat and crosses his arms, all manner of grumpy, “Don’t know what yer talking about.”

“Oh please! What you-you just pulled or tried to pull...it-it was a dick move, bro! An-and you know it! You’re-you’re better than that, man. Sm-smarter and-and classier. When-when I’m with somebody - I want ‘em, I want ‘em to be with _me_. With ME. Not someone else.”

Stan has the decency to look chagrined at these words so Rick presses on, feeling like he’s finally getting through to him, “Jimmy, y’know – he’s-he’s cool with you, with you shouting someone else’s name when you’re going at it. Hell, I’m not completely unconvinced that that’s not what gets his rocks off. But me – I want you screaming _my_ name. I want you clawing at _my_ back. I want you thinkin’ of me and-and juuu- _urp!_ -ust me! And that’s-that’s not what was gonna happen, was it?”

“No,” Stan whispers it so quietly that it’s almost inaudible. But Rick hears it. He hears it and sees all the wildness drain out of Stanley. He’s docile, resigned to being caught. Rick inhales loudly and exhales just as loudly. He rubs at his face and pulls out his flask, chugging the last of it. Then he turns and goes into one of the cabinets to draw out a fresh bottle of booze. He carefully removes the plastic peel around the cap before tossing it over near Stan’s shattered phone.

He unscrews the cap, takes several gulps of his new best friend and drums up enough withal to say, “Go ahead.”

“Go-?”

“Tell me the story, Stan,” Rick mutters, “Tell me what drove you away. Tell me-tell me all of it. Tell me about your Pops…I won’t stop you this time. Promise.”

So Stan does. He tells Rick the entire story from beginning to end. He tells him about how Filbrick abused Ford, about how Stan was witness to one such occasion. About how his parents came to town and his father laid it all out for him – about how Ford was a mistake, how Stan was a casualty, how Stan can do nothing but wreak havoc and leave destruction in his wake. How Stan is just like him.

And Rick listens to all of it without interrupting once. He doesn’t say a single word. He just looks Stan in the eyes and listens. He drinks his bottle of alcohol with gusto and takes in the whole thing. When Stanley is done, Rick turns and gets a mug out of the same cabinet where he got the bottle. He pours Stan a glass and pushes it towards him. He doesn’t say it, but the command is there, silent between them.

Drink.

Stan does.

He drains the whole glass in one smooth go. Rick shakes his head and finally speaks, “Well…don’t think your Daddy’s gonna win father of the year anytime soon.”

Stan just snorts and puts down the empty glass. Rick eyes it and contemplates pouring him another. He decides against it, instead drinking more himself, “Your-your dad and mine should-should hang out some time…compare notes.”

“Your-?” Stan starts but Rick cuts him off sharply, “Not gonna talk about it. Ever.”

His tone is firm and final. Stan accepts it. Rick slugs down more from the bottle. It’s almost empty and he chuckles dryly, “Maybe-maybe our dads should pair up. Then you and me’d be half-brothers. Bet you’d like that, huh? Give-give me a better shot at-at getting’ into your pants. After all, isn’t that what turns your crank?”

Stan smirks, “No, Ford being my brother isn’t what attracts me to him.”

“What does then?” Rick asks and he’s surprised to find he really is curious. Curious as to why someone like Stanley would be so hung up on someone who seems like such a doofus. True, Rick doesn’t know much about Ford, but from what little he’s heard and what’s been told to him by Beth, he doesn’t sound like anyone particularly noteworthy.

Clearly Stan disagrees, his eyes getting that gooey far off look that Rick would normally tease him about, “It’s hard to explain…it’s just…we’ve been there for one another our whole lives. It’s just been me and him. Us against the world. And yeah, sometimes he can be an ass. He forgets important dates, he’s overly introverted, selfish…but his good qualities far outweigh his bad. I mean, he’s smart, obviously – been labeled a genius since we was kids and it’s a fittin’ label. But he’s also kind and carin’…givin’.”

“You tell him that?”

Stan shakes his head, “Not in so many words, no. We…we didn’t get the time. We’d just barely scratched the surface of what we coulda been when Pops steamrolled over all of it.”

“Your Pops or you?” Rick asks pointedly and Stan glares at him. Rick holds up his hands, “Look, buddy, I’m just-just statin’ the facts. Mean, when you first joined up with us, I wondered why he wasn’t-wasn’t doin’ more to get you back. Me? If I was in his shoes – I-I wouldn’t have even let you leave.”

Stan looks surprised at that and Rick blows a raspberry, “Don’t-don’t look so fuckin’ shocked, Pines! I’m-I’m no Casanovella or whatever the fuck, but I also know a-a good guy when I, when I _urrrrp_! know one. And you? You’re a good guy. So, so I couldn’t get _why_ he’d let you go and I counted it against him. But then, come to find out, he’s - y’know, been _tryin’_. He’s been tryin’ to keep in touch an’-an’ sending e-mails, so, it begs the question – what-what the hell are _you_ doin’?”

“What I have to,” Stan returns darkly, “I can’t go back to him. I can’t risk it.”

“Can’t-can’t risk _what_?” Rick stresses and Stan doesn’t look like he’s going to answer, so Rick goes for the threat, “Look, you’ve-you’ve seen my inventions. You know what I can do. Do you-do you _reaaaally_ want to test me?”

Stan curls his hands into fists and smacks them roughly on his thighs, “I have a temper.”

“Yeah? So shittin what? So do I!”

“No,” Stan argues, “Not like me. I’ve…exploded before. Been…violent. Like…like _him_.”

It doesn’t take a genius to know who the 'him' in this equation is. Stan presses on, “And he said we were similar. So’s my mom. Even Ford’s said it. And I’m…terrified it’s true. Terrified I’m gonna be just like him. That I’m going to grow up all bitter and twisted and that one day I’ll take it out on Ford and I’d much rather hurt him now than-than one day just snap and-!”

“You won’t,” Rick says this with such power that he sounds miraculously sober. In fact, his eyes are bright, face clear as he intones, “You’re not your father, Stanley Pines. Not even close. And you never will be.”

“How do you know?”

Rick shrugs, “If your-your askin’ for some sorta proof…I can’t give you that. And I’m not going to say it’s faith, ‘cause I can’t stand that uppity, self-help positivity bullshit. But it’s something I just _know_. Balls to bones. And-and if Ford’s even half the man you think he is, he’ll-he’ll think the same.”

Stan looks doubtful and Rick runs a hand through his hair, mussing it further. He reaches into one of his pant's pockets and takes out a pack of cigarettes. He draws one out and offers a second stick to Stan. Stan stares at it for a very, very long time. Finally, he shakes his head. Rick’s lips twitch and he puts it away. He lights his own cigarette and takes several drags before picking back up, “Let me ask you a question. Let’s-let’s just say the situation was reversed. Put-put the glove on the other foot or whatever. You two are separated and Ford doesn’t contact you, doesn’t even try. How’d-how’d you feel?”

“Awful.”

“You can be more specific.”

This gets him a questioning look and Rick rolls his eyes, drags in a lungful of smoke and expels it in a perfect ‘O’, a trick he learned long ago, “You’d be angry. You’d be hurt. You’d think your-your precious bro bro was a-was a big bag o’ dicks!”

A surprised laugh escapes Stan at the expression and Rick’s eyebrows waggle, “Glad to hear that. Think-think that’s one of the first real, genuine laughs I’ve ever heard outta you.”

He gets a hefty sigh, “Haven’t had much to laugh about.”

“A problem of your own makin’.”

“No,” Stan counters, “I _had_ to do this, Rick. I had to leave, had to prove to myself that I could stand on my own. That I could be separate from him.”

“An’-an’ have you?”

There’s another beat of silence and Rick puts out his cigarette on the nearest wall, marking it black. He flicks the used bud to the carpet, “Look, everyone’s-everyone’s entitled to their opinion and for the most part, other people’s opinions are shit, but I’m-I’m going to give you mine anyway. Your music’s good, playing’s good and you sure as shit are good with Beth. So, yeah. You can make it. You proved it. Now it’s time to go home.”

Stan blinks and he looks hurt, “You’re…you’re kicking me out?”

“No,” Rick scrubs his hands along his face, “I’m not. Just tellin’ you what _I_ think you should do. You should know me well enough by now to know what I think of love and romance and relationships and all that fuckery. Yet here I am – sayin’ you should go home. ‘Cause while I may not _believe_ in it – I _do_ believe that _you_ do. And I believe you love Ford. And that he loves you. And that you two dumbshits should just _talk_ to one another.”

“Easier said than done,” Stan breathes like Rick just socked him in the gut. Rick walks over and pats his shoulder, “You-you can do it, buddy. You talked me into that cage – you can do this.”

Stan’s expression is a funny sight, “What _is_ it with you and the cage? Who did you even make this bet with?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, well, picture someone who looks exactly like you, but from another dimension,” Rick offers and now it’s Stan’s turn to roll his eyes, “Other dimensions. Christ, you sound like Ford. You two’d probably really hit it off.”

“Doubt it,” Rick grouses, “I usually don’t-don’t play well with others. Especially when they have sex toys I wanna play with it.”

Stan’s eyes widen and Rick busts out laughing. He smacks Stan’s shoulder again, “Come on! How’s-how’s about we go out for the rest of the night, huh? Hear there’s-there’s some big ass poker game in town. Huge pot. You’re a world class gambler and I can count cards…what could go wrong?”

He gets a nod and Stan gets to his feet. He eyes the pieces of his broken phone and Rick waves a hand, “Don’t worry. I’ll make you a new one. Much-much better one.”

“Rick?”

“Hmm?”

“Before we go…how…how’d you know?”

Rick’s already opened the door to the trailer and he’s half leaning out into the night’s cool open air. He looks at him questionably and Stan clarifies, “About what I was going to do with the picture?”

“Couple of ways. For one, you sure as fuck weren’t subtle. For another, I’m always about twelve steps ahead of everybody else at all times. Lastly, and this is a piece of advice, don’t-don’t confide in a toddler.”

Stan snaps his fingers and looks like all his questions were answered with that one name, “Beth…”

“Yeah. You shouldn’t-shouldn’t confide in someone who can-can be bribed with a couple of piggy back rides.”

“You gave her piggy back rides?” Stan looks absolutely floored as he walks closer to Rick, who (probably for the first time in history) actually looks embarrassed, “She’s my kid. She likes ‘em.”

“You give her snuggles, too? Blow kisses on her belly? Tickle her?” Stan teases and Rick punches his shoulder hard, “I’ll tickle you, motherfucker!”

They both walk off into the night, laughing the whole way.

 

+

 

Sometimes even the best laid plans get knocked off course. Due to school, work, and various other little snafus, neither Ford nor Preston is able to make Preston’s Friday night plans work. It keeps getting pushed around to different days and then just pushed back period. This leaves Ford in the dubious position of having only two things to focus on – work and his project with Bill.

Granted, it’s not like he doesn’t have other classes, but the project with Bill – well, he hates to admit it, but it is the most diverting. In fact, it borderlines on fun. Not that he’ll tell Cipher that. The little demon is far too jovial for Ford’s liking anyway. But, okay – he _is_ pretty damn smart. No, clever would be a better word. And innovative. Bill’s ideas for materials that they could use to potentially construct a portal between dimensions are ingenious. In fact, so much so that it’s starting to feel as if their project is less theoretical and more…possible.

But that’s crazy. Absolutely bonkers. They can’t actually…build a portal like this. There’s about a million reasons why not. Not that Ford’s made like, a list or anything. A very, very long list that starts with money and ends with sanity. In between? Oh so many notations. Bits about location and timing and he may or may not be scribbling these in one of his journals when he sees a much older list.

One dedicated to Stanley. A checklist with talking points and when he sees it, he feels like he’s caught in ever tightening coils – breathless and squeezed beyond belief. There’s a pressure inside of him and he rubs at his forehead. He took so long to construct that last stupid e-mail and what has he heard from it? Not one goddamn word. And month three is just about to settle in. Just a few more days and it’ll be here. Three – count ‘em – _three_ whole months since Stanley left.

Since he promised not to move out. Since he promised he’d be back.

Promises.

Ha, what a joke! Ford’s mouth turns down bitterly and he quickly moves past the pages about Stanley. Bill is yammering on about something having to do with the project and normally Ford would be riveted, but the thoughts about Stan have turned his mind away from it. He is, in fact, so distracted that he’s startled when Bill starts snapping his fingers in front of his face, “Whoa! Hey! You in there, IQ? I lose you or what?!”

“Oh! Uh, sorry,” Ford clears his throat and shuffles through the pages some more, “What did you say?”

“Well, I was talking about the kind of power source we would need for the portal, but you seem a lil’ too distracted – so how’s about we talk about that instead?”

“Talk about-?”

“What’s bothering you, genius!” Bill rolls his one visible eye, “What is it? School? Work? Family? Significant other? Pick ‘a card! Any card!”

“It’s,” Ford starts but sort of falters. Bill’s probably one of the last people he should be confiding in, “It’s…nothing.”

“That big ol’ bottom lip, doesn’t say it’s nothing,” Bill teases and he reaches out, flicking a finger at said lip. Ford scowls and rubs at his face, “Hey! Knock it off!”

Ford’s often likened Bill to a cartoon character – there are many reasons for this but, chief among them, is how quickly the guy can cycle through emotions. He can go from playful to heartbroken in a snap and now is no exception. The impish good humor drops away and the one eye is big and teary (albeit crocodile tears) as he pouts, “Aw, c’mon! We’ve worked together for _days_ now and I’ve been on my very _best_ behavior! A _true_ friend! And now here you are – tellin’ me you _still_ don’t trust me?”

 _I DON’T trust you_ , Ford almost snaps, but instead he scrubs a hand over his head, pressing on his beanie as he huffs, “Bill…”

“I can help ya, Fordsy! All ya gotta do is ask!” Bill says the words in a purr but there’s this…strange edge beneath. It makes Ford uncomfortable. He’s just about to say that Bill should just forget it, that they should focus on their work when all of the sudden his mouth opens and runs away from him, “It’s my brother – Stanley. He’s…out of town.”

Ford’s mind is immediately split in two. One half is screaming about how that’s none of Bill’s business and he should have kept his mouth shut. The other half is more hopeful, shouting back how they didn’t like Preston at first but look how that changed! Maybe Bill’s not so bad, maybe it’s okay to tell him just a little bit about his troubles. After all, he has been very good lately.

Bill looks like a cat that’s captured a mouse, the tears gone from his eye, his face breaking out into its normal maniac grin, “Outta town?! Well, pshew!” he wipes at his forehead as if he’s sweating, “You had me worried there, buddy! Thought someone’d died or something! That’s no big deal! He’ll be back soon, am I right?”

“I…don’t know,” Ford confesses, mentally kicking himself the whole time, “It’s almost been three months now.”

“Three months?” Bill repeats and then he shrugs, “Well, so what? It’s not like you two aren’t talking to one another the whoooooole time. E-mail, texts, Skype…”

“Um,” Ford interrupts him and he wants to say more, but nothing comes. Instead he rubs at one arm and feels miserable. Bill gets the message, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! No contact at ALL? What the heck is he even doing?”

“Ah…touring with a band?” Ford winces, “The-the Flesh Curtains?”

“The Flesh Curtains?! As in Rick Sanchez?!” Bill scoffs, “Your brother’s off with RICK SANCHEZ!?”

The way Bill says the band leader’s name makes Ford feel worse and he’s sure it shows on his face. The feeling is not improved as Bill whistles, “Wow! Whelp! Guess that’s it then! You two are well and truly separated this time! No way he’s gonna come back here if he’s riding Sanchez’s dick!”

The series of choked noises that leave Ford at this has Bill waving his hands, “No, hey – sorry! I mean, I hate ta presume that’s what’s happenin’. Mean; it could be totally platonic. With Rick Sanchez.”

Again, the way Bill says the name makes Ford grimace. It’s clear he doesn’t believe that Stan and Rick aren’t lovers and Ford? Ford’s starting to believe it too. Maybe…maybe this is why Stan hasn’t gotten back in touch with him. Maybe Stan really isn’t coming back. Bill pats his shoulder roughly, “Hey, look this is allllll for the best, amigo! I mean, it’s like I said – you and your brother couldn’t be in each other’s pockets forever! Time to grow up and move on, huh? Which – hey – brings me into a GREAT segue about what you should do with your future!”

Ford blinks, confused, “My future?”

“Yeah, you don’t plan on spendin’ the rest of your life here, do you?” Bill scoffs as if this part of California is disgusting, “You’re destined for great things, pal! You and me both! And it’s not like your brother’s around anymore – you gotta start blazing your own trail and you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking that Gravity Falls could be the place!”

“Gravity Falls?” Ford returns dumbly, feeling as if Bill’s just hit him over the head. Bill looks on the edge of insanity, a jittery energy exuding off of him, “Yeah! I told you about that place! It’s where we’ve set our ‘project’.”

“Our…our completely theoretical, completely impossible school project?”

“How theoretical?” Bill asks, “How impossible? A lotta science starts out that way, but then the right genius comes along and – wham! Theory becomes fact!”

 _Genius or mad man?_ Ford thinks and Bill’s looking a little too eager for his tastes. He checks his phone and sees that someone called him. His heart leaps a little at the idea of it being Stanley and he decides that even if it’s not, he’s using it as his out, “Yeeeah, look – it’s getting late and it looks like I missed a call. Could…could be work.”

“Work?” Bill asks archly, “Or Stanley?”

Ford says nothing to this, instead rising to his feet and collecting his stuff while Bill glares at him, arms crossed, “You know it’s not Stan, right?”

Again, Ford doesn’t rise to the bait but Bill keeps pushing, “But you’re hoping it is, huh? Man, are you going to be disappointed!”

This earns him a nasty look and Bill eases back a little, tone a soothing murmur, “Look, Stanford – I don’t mean to be catty, but three months is a long time. It’s especially a long time, alone, with Rick Sanchez. And even if it wasn’t, even if it IS Stanley – I stand behind what I said. You two can’t be together forever. You should really think about coming to Gravity Falls with me. It’ll be an adventure.”

The idea of adventure trips Ford up for but a second, his mind set with the immediate rejoinder: _I don’t want to go anywhere with you!_

Still…

“Bill, I haven’t graduated yet.”

“I’m not sayin’ we’d go there _forever_! I’m saying we’d just take a trip…just the two of us,” Bill’s voice is like silk now, wrapping carefully around him, “We can go and just check out the area. We’ll totally come back here and finish school and graduate or whatever but first! First we have some FUN! Maybe play around with our project a little…and I promise my gang won’t be there – so you don’t have to worry about Eight Ball! And there won’t be anything within miles that’ll remind you of Stanley.”

Bill coyly remarks, “Admit it, it’s hard being around here with him gone, isn’t it? Bet you can’t even turn a corner without seeing something that reminds you of him.”

Ford hates how much this is true. Bill, sensing victory, is all smiles, “Just…give it some thought, huh?”

“I…” Ford’s mouth escapes him again, “Sure. Sure, I will. Why not?”

“Good!” Bill beams and starts clapping his hands excitedly. Ford’s almost out the door when he hears Bill call out, “Hey! When’s that Operation: B’s thing? I gotta know when and what time you want me to bring and set up my super sweet gear! Can’t go to Gravity Falls and change the world until I go to your coffee house and change the world of music!”

Ford doesn’t answer with words, instead just making sounds and waving his hands, trying to get across that he’s too busy to answer that question just now when – really– it’s that he doesn’t want to answer that question. He still shudders when he thinks of the awful ‘music’ Bill played on his phone.  He walks through the school building with swift strides and finds the farther away he gets from Bill, the better he feels.

Still, it’s as if a hive of bees are buzzing inside him. He hasn’t gotten many calls on his phone lately. Primarily everyone he knows texts. Stan is usually included in this, but maybe, just maybe, he’s called! Maybe there was a reason he couldn’t e-mail back or maybe he couldn’t think of what to say in an e-mail. Ford knows he struggled with what to write Stan, so it makes sense his brother would have just as hard a time responding. He waits until he’s far off campus before he checks his phone.

There’s no voicemail, but he still has the notification for the missed call. He checks it, hoping beyond hope that it’s Stanley.

It’s not.

It’s his father.

And just like that – everything in Ford turns to ice. He freezes, a hard pulse forming right behind his eyes, breath picking up speed. His father won’t have left a message, he never does, but he doesn’t normally call more than once a month and he’s already done that requisite call. In fact, things between Ford and his father have been even more uncomfortable since Stan left. This is mostly due to Ford lightly questioning Filbrick about what he and Stan discussed, only for him to have his head bitten off.

Filbrick had been adamant – it was none of Ford’s business and Ford…he hadn’t pushed it. It was shameful, but he – he couldn’t. He couldn’t find the strength to, the bravery. His father’s tone had been so heated when he’d asked and Filbrick rarely used a heated tone. Normally he’s coldly reserved. Not that either tone makes Ford feel safe.

He always has this feeling of being on edge when talking to his father –even when their discussions are benign in nature. There’s an unease, a constant worry of saying or doing the wrong thing, that makes talking to him difficult. And frankly, it’s always been much easier to do so when Stan’s around. Stan gives a sense of security, but now…

Ford licks his lips and knows he needs to call back right away. If he puts it off, it’ll just get worse. Ever since telling Stan about how there was more than one occasion in which his father punished him, Ford finds more and more memories of such occasions rising to the surface. It’s as if they were buried deep within him only to now sprout and grow, to become prominent within him.

He recalls how his father always expected him to answer quickly when spoken to – to speak clearly, to look him in the eyes, to be a man – and how if Ford ever faltered in any of these regards then later, much later – far from his mother and Stan he’d…pay for it.

He rubs his right arm, remembering how one time he’d been a little short or he’d mumbled or something and his father had taken this arm in hand and just…squeezed. Squeezed so _hard_ and sort of _turned_. Twisted. Ford can recall the pain and he almost wants to hiss with it, a phantom jolt shooting through the limb.

He shakes his head. He’s being so stupid. Ridiculous. Whatever the reason, he’s sure it was deserved. He should’ve spoken up, shouldn’t have been short, he should have…

Ford realizes he isn’t breathing properly when a jagged breath chokes him. He shakes his head again, harder this time. _Get ahold of yourself_ , his thoughts hiss in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Filbrick’s. He focuses on the phone as he draws up the recent call list and clicks the button to return the call. The phone only rings once and then he’s hearing his father’s gruff, “Hello.”

“Hey, Dad. It’s Stanford. I’m just returning your call?” he hates how uncertain he sounds at the end.

Thankfully his father doesn’t respond to it, “Yeah. Just wanted to let you know your mother and me’ll be back in town this week.”

“What?” Ford gasps, “Why?”

“Excuse me,” this is barked back with a sense of offense and Ford pales at it, swallowing, “No! I-I mean, I…it’ll-it’ll be, um, great to see you guys again, but you were…you were just down here so, it’s-it’s a bit of a surprise is all.”

And it is. Filbrick isn’t the kind to spend money this way. Flights cross country aren’t cheap and it’s not as if his parents enjoy traveling. They’re more homebodies, happily locked to New Jersey state; so to hear that they’re already coming back…

“Eh, your mother’s got something to tell you,” he grumbles and Ford almost asks what it is but holds his tongue. If he says that, he’ll get torn a new one for sure. After all, his father clearly just said Ford’s mother wants to tell him, so Ford has to wait for his mother. But what could she possibly want to tell him in person that’s so important that his parents feel the need to fly back here?

Filbrick continues, “Your brother back yet?”

“Oh,” Ford gasps, “Ah…no. No, unfortunately not.”

Filbrick just grunts in response and it’s obvious he’s not broken up about it. Instead he starts telling Ford when their flight is set to arrive and where they’ll be staying in town. Ford only halfheartedly listens. He feels like he’s sinking, like he’s melting away. His parents are coming back – his _father_ is coming back – he’s going to have to see them again and he’s going to have to see them again _alone_.

He feels hopeless, disconsolate. He does his very best to wrap up the conversation as if he feels otherwise, keeping his words light and brief. Filbrick seems to approve – he always appreciates short and to the point. Ford concludes the call and walks home feeling as if he’s walking towards a gas chamber.

When he enters the apartment it’s to see that Fidds is gone. His friend’s left him a note – apparently Shandra called him in, wanting extra hands on deck – someone to watch the store front while another works on the patio. Ford contemplates going to the store himself, thinking to help out, to distract himself but instead he trudges into his room.

Stan’s room.

Their room.

And as he’s done, oh so many times since this all began, he collapses on the bed and thinks about not getting up. He curls into a ball on Stan’s side, hugging his brother’s pillow close as if it’s his brother himself.

“I’m pathetic,” he whispers aloud and he breathes in, Stan’s scent barely there. It used to be so much stronger, but it’s fading with each and every passing day. Ford closes his eyes and hates himself, hates how wretched he feels, when he hears his phone ring. He tenses, wondering if it’s his father again only to see Preston’s name glowing on the screen.

Comforted, he picks up, “Hey,”

“Fordsy, my man! How are you doing?”

“Not too good,” Ford’s words come out muffled, the pillow still cuddled close to him but Preston hears him well enough, “Oh? Whatever’s the matter?”

Ford sighs and pushes the pillow away. He rests on his back, eyes on the ceiling, “Nothing, it’s just…”

He tries to think of what exactly to say. How exactly to best express his despair. Unlike his conversation with Bill earlier, it’s easier to talk to Preston. While it’s strange that his once enemy is now his friend, Preston can be a surprisingly good listener. So, Ford just lets it all out, “I miss Stan.”

He is greeted with nothing but silence and, taking this as a sign that he can continue, he does, “I miss Stan and I don’t know why he hasn’t answered my last e-mail and it’s-it’s frustrating. And hurtful and it’s not like him. I’m worried about him and I keep missing Fidds these days and while I like working on the patio I don’t see how this music thing is going to benefit us and when I think of the Friday Night Jam sessions I just think of Stan again and it’s this circle of shit, you know?”

Again, nothing but he doesn’t need an answer, he just needs to vent, “And then there’s Bill. The project with him is going okay and he’s actually really smart and motivational, but sometimes he says these things…they’re kind of creepy and they make me feel uncomfortable and as if all of that wasn’t bad enough, my parents are coming back into town.”

“Your parents?” Preston asks and it’s the first thing he’s really said, but it doesn’t matter, Ford latches on to it, grateful to have someone to talk to about this, “Yeah, they’re flying in this week and they want to meet up on Saturday and I…I don’t know why. Apparently my mother wants to tell me something and apparently she has to do it face to face. It’s not like them, to spend this kind of cash and to do this kind of travel, especially not when they were just out here not that long ago and…”

His words drop off and he feels all edgy again, “And I don’t know if I’m ready. To-to see my father again. To deal with him. You and I talked about it a little before, but he’s…trying.”

“I understand,” Preston says and Ford feels like he really does. Neither of them have talked about their fathers much, but there’s this feeling –this connection that they have similar circumstances.

“If Stanley was here, maybe I’d…I’d feel better about it, but to see them again on my own…”

“Do you _have_ to see them on your own?” Preston offers and suddenly Ford feels like he sees a light at the end of the tunnel as Preston goes on, “I mean…I’m free on Saturday. And you and I did discuss going out to dinner – so, I see no reason why we can’t include your parents.”

“You…you’d do that for me?” Ford gasps and he can perfectly envision Preston’s dimples as he chuckles, “Of course! We’ll wine them and dine them! We’ll go to one of the finest restaurants this city has to offer! What could go wrong?”

“Wow! Preston! I-I don’t know what to say!”

“There’s nothing to say. I do believe this is how friendship works, yes?” Preston asks it in a way where he’s half confirming it and half looking for confirmation. Ford easily supplies it, “Yeah! You bet!”

“Wonderful! This time we’ll see no delays, hmm?”

“No,” Ford promises, “My dad would…no, this is _definitely_ going to happen!”

“Fantastic, old sport! I’ll call you back in a few minutes once I have the details finalized.”

“‘Old sport’ Who are you? Gatsby?”

“You are unable to see it on your end, but I assure you, I am displaying what is considered to be quite an offensive hand gesture in your direction,” Preston jokes and Ford laughs, feeling better than he’s felt all day. The call ends and Ford continues to look at the ceiling, feeling a tiny bit buoyed. With Preston in tow, maybe he can face his parents – most particularly his father – with no problems.

And maybe...maybe he can ask about Stan again. Ford hadn’t been able to push it on the phone, but in person, his father can’t just escape, can’t evade him. The idea of it is truly frightening, but for once Ford doesn’t feel like he’s going to back away from it. He hugs Stan’s pillow closer. No. This time he won’t back away. This time he’ll get answers – no matter what the cost. Like Preston said – what could go wrong?


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Homophobia, homophobic slur, violence, vicious arguing, references to child abuse, language, ANGST

This is a _terrible_ idea.

Oh god.

Such. A Terrible. IDEA.

What had Ford been thinking? What could go wrong? Really?! About a _million_ things! A million things can and _will_ go wrong! He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror and winces. He’s done his best to do _something_ with his hair but it looks like a fluffy, wild bird’s nest. He desperately wants to slap a beanie over top of it, but knows that will be frowned upon.

His mother already commented on how he wears them too much and they’re going to a fancy restaurant – one that most likely looks down on hats – never mind the fact his father definitely won’t be removing his, but his father’s confident enough to do that, stubborn enough to do that, and holy shit! His father is going to be there. He’s going to see him again and he’s going to try to…to confront him and get answers about Stanley and…

“Fuck,” Ford groans and he pushes his glasses up to rub at his eyes with both hands. When he removes them he forces himself to look at his reflection again. Aside from his hair and his complexion (which seems to be growing paler by the second) he doesn’t look too bad. Right? He has on the only nice outfit he has – dark blue slacks, white button up shirt and the jacket he inadvertently received from Preston. He’s got on his necklace (as always, he never takes it off) but it’s tucked beneath his shirt so that he can have a tie lazily looped around his neck. He hasn’t tied it yet because…well, because he’s complete shit when it comes to tying a tie.

Stan’s actually the one who’s good with that. Before now, if they had to go to a function that required a bow or a tie, Stan usually did it up for him. His fingers are dexterous like that. Ford’s are just a shuffling mess – maybe because of the extra ones? He doesn’t know. And the tie…he’s sure that’s going to be frowned on too. True, one side is merely dark blue with a tiny red lion embroidered on it, but the reverse side is a print of the Union Jack. Susan purchased it for him because he went through a brief phase where he thought everything from England was cool – mainly due to his obsession with Inspector Space Time.

But he knows his father will disapprove. He’s firmly rooted in America – beer, baseball, apple pie…hell, he always complains about how he can’t understand what in the world British people are saying – how he needs subtitles for when they speak and this is going to be a _disaster_! An unqualified disaster and what was he thinking agreeing to this dinner?!

He knows his mother wants to speak to him in person, but maybe there was some other way he could have done this. He could have worked out a better location, a simpler one, and every time he thinks about confronting his father, really pushing the issue about Stanley he feels breathless.

How can he confront him? How can he push anything? He told Stanley’s he’s not afraid of their father and he’s…he’s not. He’s _not_! His father is just…his father. He’s family. He won’t…won’t hurt him. Yes, he hurt him before, but that was in the past. He hasn’t laid a hand on him in years and there’s no reason to be so nervous. To be…

“Christ, you’re not afraid,” he hisses under his breath, tone vicious because he’s angry with himself for feeling this way. For _feeling_. He wishes he could just become numb. A stone. Unmoved, untouched…just stripped of all feeling. _Then_ he could talk to his father. _Then_ he could be…brave? He doesn’t feel like that’s the right word and he growls, tugging at his hair, making it worse and wilder when there’s a knock at the front door.

Grunting, he marches away from the mirror and opens the door to see Preston standing there. He’s wearing a maroon sweater with a white button up shirt beneath, the top knot of a golden tie just peeking out. He has on a fine jacket and dark blue jeans and Ford’s a bit taken aback by the jeans. He’s also holding a flower vase in one hand and a small black case in another.

“You’re early,” Ford offers inelegantly and Preston smirks, looking sheepish, “Thought I’d come early. Help you prepare.”

Ford just nods and backs away so Preston can come inside. Preston puts down the case and holds the vase towards him, “For you.”

“Another one?” Ford asks, but his tone is amused. It’s nice to see Preston. Hell, at this point it’d be nice to see _anyone_. Ford can’t stand being alone with himself and his thoughts for another second longer. He looks over the flower, “This is nice…an orchid, right?”

“Correct,” Preston returns with pleased relish, “They are, in fact, my favorite flower.”

“Huh,” Ford takes the plant and holds it up, inspecting it. It looks very delicate, fragile. A thick green stem rises up from the pot, curving so much as to almost fall over save for the fact that it’s being supported by a tiny stick. There are several buds and the ones that have opened to blossom are bright scarlet, “It’s beautiful.”

Preston looks almost disproportionately happy as Ford carefully takes it out to the deck, “Where should I set it?”

“A little away from the sunlight – it needs some, but not too much. Indirect only,” Preston explains and Ford nods, “Okay. I’ll set it between Curie and Noble.”

“Curie and Noble?” Preston questions as Ford sets the orchid between two plants. He adjusts them a bit then nods, “Yes, I named them. The plants, I mean. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with plants? Name them? Talk to them?”

“I believe that’s house pets,” Preston counters but the look on his face…Ford’s never seen anything like it. It’s as if Ford’s sprouted wings or something. Preston clears his throat, his expression becoming something more familiar, “But I think it’s a fine thing. To name them. I wonder what you shall name the orchid.”

“Dunno, I’ll have to think about it,” Ford murmurs, “So? Come on? What’s the orchid’s meaning?”

“You do very much enjoy hearing their meanings, don’t you?”

“It’s the best part,” Ford chuckles and Preston rolls his eyes, “Again, much like roses and tulips – it’s the color of the flower that carries the meaning.”

“Ah, I see. So, red – what does that mean?”

“Love,” Preston answers automatically and then looks as if a gun’s been fired, alarm flooding his face as he starts yammering, “I mean, passion! NO! Agh! No, no, _no_! Ah, I mean love and passion as in _friendship_! Yes! Friendship love passion – love for…for a friendship. Like a passionate love for a friendship, but in a purely friendly…”

“I get it, Preston,” Ford cuts in, chuckling because Preston does this a lot. Sort of stumbles all over himself. Ford’s always had problems with nerves, but Preston really takes the cake. It’s clear he’s new to friendship and he worries about saying the wrong thing. It’s Ford’s job to reassure him, to let him know it’s okay if he fumbles, that there’s not going to be consequences for it.

Preston relaxes marginally at the words and Ford pats his shoulder, “You’re my friend, too.”

He gets a noncommittal hum at this and then Ford snaps his fingers, “That reminds me – I actually have a gift for you!”

Ford dashes into his room and then comes back with a book as well as a pair of black, skinny jeans. Seeing the jeans first, Preston raises one eyebrow, “Jeans?”

“What?” Ford looks down at the clothing and laughs, “Oh, no! These are for me. Thinking I’d change into them – I mean, if you’re wearing jeans…”

“Yes, jeans are perfectly acceptable for this establishment. I chose a place that’s highbrow, but not so stuffy as to require super formal attire. Semi is the standard. I figured it would be best for you and your family. Something impressive, but not overwhelming.”

“Sounds great!” Ford agrees and he holds out the book, “ _This_ is for you.”

Preston takes it and reads off the title, “‘Beautiful Wild Flowers of America?’”

“Yeah, I saw it in an antique store. You’ve given me a lot of gifts and you’re helping me out tonight and well…I thought you might like it?” the last ends in a question because Ford’s really not sure, but Preston clutches the weathered book to his chest, “I love it. Thank you.”

Ford nods and ducks into the restroom, shutting the door behind him. He quickly changes, emerging to see the black case Preston put down earlier, “Hey, what’s that?”

Preston follows his eyes and, seeing the case, grins shyly, “Oh! Yes! Well, I know when we initially discussed your trying my corner of the world we talked about going to an Opera. Since that idea was scrapped, my next thought was something far simpler and perhaps enjoyable.”

He opens the case a draws out a gorgeous violin. It’s polished to perfection and Ford’s eyes widen, “Whoa…”

“Yes, it’s a fine piece. I’ve actually had this since I was fourteen, but I’ve kept it in pristine condition. I thought I could play for you before we depart.”

“Yeah! That’d be cool!” Ford gushes and he sits on the couch. Preston looks a little apprehensive at first as he looks the violin over, running a few fingers up and down the strings before he removes the bow and starts to play. Music fills the air – low and mournful, sweet. Yet it makes Ford feel much better. It eases a lot of the worry inside him…just as Stan’s music has in the past.

Ford wonders how they would sound together…Goldie and-? Hmm, he wonders if Preston named his violin. He clearly doesn’t name flowers. Honestly, Ford feels kind of silly about that now, but – again, the music helps wash it away. Ford listens and when the song is complete he applauds wildly. Preston bows, lips twitching as he puts the violin away. Ford asks, “So, what song was that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Who composed it?”

Preston shrugs, “I did.”

“You? Really?” Ford asks and his tone is so delighted that Preston chuckles, “It was simple.”

“God…both you and Stan say that. Composing music is _not_ easy! If it was, everyone would do it! You two are just…so talented.”

Another shrug but Ford can’t let it go, “What do you call it?”

He gets a questioning sound and he sighs, “The song, Preston. The one you just played.”

Preston avoids his gaze, voice quiet, “‘Never to Bloom’.”

Ford absorbs that and he feels his earlier happiness begin to fade. It’s a sad title and part of him wants to ask Preston more about it, but he doesn’t get a chance, Preston remarking dryly, “We should be going. It would be best to arrive there before your parents.”

“Yeah,” Ford agrees and – just like that – his earlier emotions return to throttle him. They start towards the door when Preston stops him, frowning, “Your tie is undone.”

“Uh…yeeeah,” Ford drawls, “I’m, ah, not very good at tying them? Maybe I should just take it off?”

“No, no, here,” Preston turns and quickly ties it for him. He adjusts it and then gives it a gentle pat, “There! Much better!”

Ford gives him a huge smile, “Wow! Thanks!”

Preston suddenly starts coughing, his face growing red and for a moment Ford’s worried for him until he’s waved off, Preston saying in a choked voice, “Nothing! It’s nothing, you’re-you’re welcome.”

“You sure you’re okay? You fixed my tie and then you turned all red and started coughing…”

“Confound it all, Pines! I’m _fine_! Just,” Preston gestures towards his throat, “Something went-went down the wrong pipe, I think. Air or saliva or…something.”

“Um, okay. If you say so,” Ford says as they leave.

 

+

Ford can’t sit still.

He keeps shifting in his seat and poking at all the silverware laid out before him. And there is a lot of silverware before him. Why are there so many forks? And spoons? Don’t you just need one of each? He’s starting to have a bigger appreciation for what it must have felt like for Preston when he went to the Diner for the first time. This restaurant – Bistro Rouge – it’s so…classy.

He feels overwhelmed by it. Uncomfortable. And poor. So, so poor. The tablecloth is made of thick, high quality linen and the dishware looks so expensive. It damn near glistens. Same for the glasses – both for water and for wine and they poured him without even asking for his ID. In fact the sommelier (this place has a _sommelier_ ) talks to him as if he’s forty five and beyond wealthy.

Which makes Ford fidget even more. But Preston? Oh, he’s totally in his element. He lets out gentle laughs (so opposite from the ones Ford’s come to know and like) and speaks to several of the wait staff in fluent French. Ford knows some French, but it’s not his strongest language.

And they have a _private_ room. Out on a _terrace_. He didn’t even know that was possible, didn’t even know that was something restaurants offered and the servers are cooing over them. Preston in particular. The flattery raining down on them makes Ford wonder if Preston has to tip more – an extra dollar for each nice adjective thrown in their direction.

Once they finally have a moment alone together, Preston lets out a hefty sigh, “Please sit still, Stanford. It’s unbecoming.”

“I can’t help it!” Ford gripes, “This place! This place is…it’s nuts! I think this dish costs more than my rent! No way can I afford to eat here! And my parents-”

“I’ve got it covered,” Preston supplies smoothly; “I thought you knew?”

“You’re…” Ford blinks owlishly, “You’re paying?”

“Of course.”

“For-for _all_ of this? For _all_ of us?!”

“Naturally.”

“Preston! No! I-I can’t let you-!”

“It’s done, Fordsy,” Preston cuts in, tone firm, “I promised you a chance to experience my lifestyle and here it is. Your parents being able to sample it as well is merely a bonus.”

“B-but-!”

Preston waves away his words, “Ford, I understand what a momentous evening this is for you. You’re facing your parents for the first time since your brother left. And you will be asking your father in person about Stan’s absence, yes?”

Again, Ford blinks rapidly, “I…yeah? How-how did you-?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Preston sighs and he picks up his glass of wine, swirling the amber liquid inside lightly. He sniffs it before taking a sip and putting it back, “It’s a logical conclusion that you would wish to address the issue with him and – frankly – I will admit some curiosity on my part. I would also like to know what exactly he said that sent your brother running. After all, I feel you won’t be…”

He trails off and Ford frowns, wondering why because – well, up until now Preston has looked so cool and polished. But as he pauses now, he looks…uncertain. Wary. Finally he continues in another vein, “It will…perhaps, offer you closure. Stanley seems reluctant to give it to you. Perhaps unwilling. Maybe your father’s explanation will fill in the gaps, make it so that you can…move on.”

“Move on?”

Preston nods and Ford frowns, wondering what exactly he means by that, but he’s unable to ask because his parents have arrived. He sees his father and mother walking straight towards them and everything in him wants to run. Fight or flight. God, he wants to choose flight. He feels so jumpy, his whole body vibrating with the desire to just go. To leave.

But he can’t.

Because Preston is right. He needs this. He _needs_ to know.

So he forces himself to remain seated, his hands gripping the fine, curved wooden handles of the overly expensive chair he’s in. As always his father is in a suit, shades in place, fedora on his head. His mother is yet again wearing a flowing dress but instead of her normal red, this one is black. She makes up for the somber color with gold accessories – hoop earrings, necklaces, bracelets – the works.

“Stanford, you gonna hug your mother or-?” she teases and he realizes he should rise, should do as she asks. He gets to his feet and hugs her then looks at his father, unsure of what to do. Thankfully Preston swoops in, offering his hand, “Sir.”

Filbrick eyes the hand but takes it. They shake and the creases around Filbrick’s mouth slacken slightly, “Nice handshake.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And who’re you again?”

“Preston Northwest.”

“Preston?” Mr. Pines repeats and he looks from Ford to Preston then back again, “Like Preston of the flowers?”

Ford just offers a wordless nod and Mr. Pines grumps. He takes his seat and Ford feels somewhat relieved that he doesn’t have to sit right next to him. The table is circular and he’s nicely wedged between his mother and Preston. Preston has the unfortunate duty of being close to Filbrick, but he seems unaffected. In fact, he seems more comfortable than ever – as if this is old hat to him.

“Would you like a drink, sir?” Preston offers and Filbrick grunts his assent. Preston snaps his fingers and the sommelier appears from thin air. Mr. Pines is offered a thick drink menu but he quickly chooses a high priced scotch. Mrs. Pines waves off alcohol, asking for just water and once more the wait staff is gone.

They are isolated and Ford is completely tense. Every blood vessel is locked and there’s a pounding in his head. He doesn’t know where to begin, where to start, and it’s eerily quiet. No one is speaking or looking at one another and the air is stifled, thick with silence.

Finally the wait staff reappears with their drinks and one of them politely asks for their food orders. Ford hasn’t even looked at the menu. He can’t eat, hasn’t even dreamed of eating every time he’s imagined this night and now it’s here and he feels like he’s drowning in it. He can’t breathe, _he can’t breathe_ …

Mrs. Pines prompts him, “Ford, honey, it’s your turn.”

“My turn?” he asks and his words sound hollow to his own ears.

“To order.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Ford,” she chides and Preston reaches out, touching his elbow lightly, “I can make a recommendation, if you’d like?”

Ford turns and looks at him and Preston’s eyes are not unkind. He gets the impression that Preston knows all about the storm that’s brewing inside him, that he’s faced this dilemma himself. Ford wordlessly nods and Preston points out some items on the menu. Ford tries to focus on them, tries to get himself together, because he doesn’t understand what the hell is wrong with him. These are just his parents – his parents. He’s had dinner with them before – a thousand times, he’s talked to them but he’s…he’s never felt like this.

He can feel his father’s eyes on him.

He’s felt that before and when he’s felt it…

None of this makes any sense. He’s over all of this, all of it. But ever since talking to Stanley about his past…it’s like a Pandora’s box has been opened, all the previous pain keeps flooding into him and that makes absolutely no sense. The past is in the past. He should be over it; he IS over it and Stanley….god, if only Stanley was here…

He hears himself order something, he honestly doesn’t know what the hell he picks, and the waits staff is gone once more. The silence returns and Ford’s whole being itches with it and, yet again, Preston comes to the rescue, “May I just say, you look very lovely this evening, Mrs. Pines.”

She laughs and pushes her long hair over one shoulder, “Oh! Well! Thank you, Preston! That’s very nice of you to say! And thanks for inviting us here! This place is…swanky. Real swanky.”

Preston nods, “Yes, it’s a tad on the pretentious side. I apologize, but I thought you both would enjoy this establishment. They just received another Michelin star.”

Mr. Pines buries himself in the scotch, “Drink’s good.”

“Indeed. My father always enjoys the bourbon they have on hand here.”

“Bourbon?” Mr. Pines asks and, surprisingly, he looks intrigued. He does, in fact, begin eyeing Preston with renewed interest, “Wait a minute…earlier, you said Northwest? As in Northwest Motors?”

“Indeed. Also Northwest Realty, Northwest Finance, Northwest…well, my father runs a variety of different business ventures.”

Mr. Pines sits back and his expression…he’s _impressed_.

Ford’s never seen his father look this way save for when he was offered the scholarship, “You do that with him? Work with him?”

You would have to really know Preston to catch it, but the question…Preston flinches. It happens so fast as to almost go completely unnoticed. But Ford notices it. He notices it and he want to shift the subject away, wants to help Preston as Preston’s helped him, but he doesn’t get the chance because Preston just charges on, “I do indeed. It’s why I’m attending West Coast Tech alongside your son. While Ford’s pursuits are more scientific in nature, mine have been set to economics, accounting...when I graduate I will be running a wing of the company.”

“So, you’ve got a wealthy future ahead of you,” Mr. Pines probes and Ford starts to get this feeling…this awful feeling…

“I do,” Preston supplies and Ford’s father looks extremely satisfied at this. He nods and turns to Ford, murmuring, “I approve.”

“You-? I’m…I’m sorry?” Ford breathes and suddenly the feeling becomes fact. And it makes him…hot. Normally he’s so cold, but it’s as if someone’s sparked a flame within him. Huge chunks of ice seem to melt away and he feels his hands curling, forming fists but not quite. He waits for his father to elaborate but, as is his way, he doesn’t.

Instead he happily lifts his scotch and takes another mighty swig of it. Ford just looks at him. _I approve. I approve? I approve?!_ The words run around in circles in his head, consuming him. _I approve_. Those two words…so innocuous but so-so _infuriating_ …

_I approve._

The food comes and it goes and Ford hasn’t said a word. Everyone else has talked. His mother, Preston, even his father…all three chat amicably and they’re saying nothing, nothing at all – nothing important and Ford feels close to bursting. He hears laughter and it’s like its miles away. He feels adrift, but then his hears a sound, it draws him in and he realizes it’s his mother. She’s asking him something and then she softly nudges him, repeating his name, “…Ford? Ford, did you hear what I-?”

 “What’s your news,” Ford blurts and his voice is tight. Tight with so much anger. With fury and he realizes that ever since he heard the words ‘I approve’ he’s been stewing, fuming, and now it’s reached its peak. It can be contained within him no longer; it’s bolting loose, a volcano erupting.

“What?” she asks and she seems a little startled by his tone. He doesn’t blame her. _He’s_ startled by his tone. He didn’t ask a question – not really. He damn near demanded it of her and he instantly regrets it. He didn’t mean for it to come out that way, didn’t mean to speak to her in a gruff manner and its clear his father’s heard it too, his voice waspish, “Don’t talk to your mother like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Ford sincerely apologizes to her, because he really didn’t mean to talk to her that way. But he can’t help it. This is killing him. He can’t wait another second. He can’t live in this farce and the dinner’s barely even begun, but it can’t go any further. It just can’t. Not without answers.

Preston’s already waved away the wait staff that had just started collecting their used plates, replacing them with smaller, empty ones intended for desert and once they are completely alone again, just the four of them, Ford repeats his question, “But what _is_ your news?”

“Oh, well, um…I-I was going to save it for just the right moment, but…”

“Mom, please…I’ve been waiting and I’m,” he swallows thickly, “I need to know…I’m…”

“Oh, sweetie, no, I’m sorry! You look so upset!” She ducks her shoulders, “I guess I never considered…ya know, that you might think it’s somethin’ bad. It’s not! I swear! It’s…well…”

She reaches out and takes one of Filbrick’s hands in hers, “We’re expecting.”

Ford feels as if he’s going to crack in two, “Expecting? Expecting what?”

She snorts, “A baby, silly! Your father and me are gonna be givin’ you and yer brother another sibling!”

She lets Filbrick’s hand go and rubs at her stomach, “Found out a little after we left here last time. Honestly, I thought I was long since passed conceiving, but here we are! It’s a miracle! Shame your brother’s not here to hear. But your father told me he’s out of town and...”

“Oh, that’s what he told you?” Ford hears himself and he sounds hysterical. His mother shoots him a weird look, “Um…yeah?”

Ford rubs at his face and Mrs. Pines continues albeit in a cautious tone, “But, you know, that’s not all.”

“It’s not?” Ford wheezes and she’s still looks confused, “Um…no. See, your father and me have been talkin’ and, well, with the new baby on the way and you kids out here, we’ve been thinkin' long and hard about it and we’re considerin’ movin’ down here.”

Everything in the world stops. Ford _feels_ it. He feels the world _stop_. It just stops. Dead still.

His mother, not recognizing it, just continues, “It’s not that we don’t love Jersey – we do. But it’s gotten a little too…touristy. Not to mention that, well, we had the strangest incident happen recently – this awful man with this clowny, Halloween-mask for a face showed up at our place and he was talkin’ some gibberish about how he was the Razz Dazzler or something…”

She rolls her eyes and sips her water, “Anyway, your father sent him packing, but the point remains – it’d be much better for everybody if we came down here, right? Your father’s talked about expanding the Pawn business and this way we’d be closer to you and Stanley and…”

“Move…here?” he gasps and the fire within him rages. It bursts up, wild and hot, but there’s ice too. It rains down on him; cold, freezing sheets and the duality of it must show in his expression, because his mother looks at him with grave concern, “Stanford, baby, what on earth is the matter? Figured you’d be happy to hear all of this.”

“H-happy?” Ford repeats and he feels dizzy, he feels sick. He gets to his feet and sort of stumbles around in a circle and Filbrick rises, his tone stern, “Stanford, sit back down. You’re upsetting your mother.”

“Upset…are you-are you serious?” Ford puffs out, “ _I’m_ upsetting _her_?!  Me? She’s…you’re both telling me you’re having another kid and moving out here and you- you said you approve?! Just what the hell do you approve of?!”

“Hey! Watch it!” his father warns, but something in Ford has snapped. It’s broken and it’s like he’s a wild animal that’s been released from a cage after years of captivity. He feels maddened as he lets out an ugly laugh, “Watch what? You told Mom Stan’s out of town? Did you tell her _why_ he’s out of town? Did you tell her what you won’t tell me? How you-how you chased him off? How you convinced him to move out and leave me?”

“Moved out? Who moved out?” Mrs. Pines asks and Ford scoffs, “So, she _doesn’t_ know! _Of course_ she doesn’t! Why would she?! She doesn’t know anything! No one knows anything!”

Mr. Pines charges over towards him, a powerhouse, shoulders squared as he pokes his finger in Ford’s face, “You shut yer trap this instant!”

“No!” Ford cries and then he bellows it, “NO! For once I’m not going to shut up! I’m going to shout and scream and I don’t give a shit who the hell hears me, do you understand?! You come here and you tell me you’re having a baby and moving down here and that you approve?! Approve of what? Of Preston?”

Preston, who has been here the whole time, looks chagrinned to be mentioned. His eyes are down cast on his plate and Ford can see him out of the corner of his eyes and he feels bad for him, but he can’t seem to stop himself, can’t seem to shut up, his mouth going a mile a minute, “You approve of us being together? Is that it?”

“Well, if you’re gonna be a fag at least it’s with a rich kid!” Filbrick snarls and Mrs. Pines gasps, startled, and Preston’s starts up now, tone injured, “Mr. Pines, I assure you, your son and I are merely friends, we’re…”

But Preston’s words get lost as Ford laughs again, more loudly and with an even nastier edge to it, “Preston is NOT my boyfriend and even if he was – I would NOT need your approval!”

“Oh no?” his father asks in a low hiss and Ford feels himself tighten again, feels that thin thread of…shame. Because Ford knows, knows deep down inside, that he _does_ want his father’s approval. Even though he knows he shouldn’t – he wants it. And he hates himself for it. It makes him so angry and he clings to that anger, uses it to push himself onward, growling, “I’m _not_ with him.”

“Sure, ‘cause straight guys are always givin’ one another flowers,” his father drawls and Ford’s spine straightens. He doesn’t know what he’s doing even as his feet start moving, start carrying him over to Preston. Preston’s already standing and it looks like he’s thinking about ducking out, leaving them to their misery, but Ford’s too fast for him. He moves in with swift, calculated precision and grabs thick handfuls of Preston’s sweater, dragging him over and kissing him.

It is _not_ a nice kiss.

Their lips meet together in a harsh mash up and Preston lets out an troubled sound before he’s roughly shoved away and Ford’s pointing at him, shouting, “Does _that_ look like we’ve kissed before?!”

“How the fuck should I know?” his father bellows and Mrs. Pines has risen from her seat, hands held up, “Now, boys, please…”

Ford is too enraged, too lost to listen to his mother. He moves away from Preston and back towards his father, back towards the heart of the argument, “Look, I don’t _need_ your approval and what’s more, I don’t need you moving down here and interfering in my life any more than you already have!”

“Oh ho – interferin’? What? Like when I paid your hospital bills? Ya know, the bills ya racked up when you let someone slip you a goddamn mickey?!”

“I should have never called you,” Ford hisses, “I should have never brought you back into our lives! Stanley and I were perfectly happy before I asked for your help! Before I was foolish enough to think you’d…you’d be a good parent and just-! And Stanley…”

Saying his twin’s name in front their father, saying it without Stanley actually being present, it’s like he’s being skewered. Sharp jags of pain shoot through him as he yells, “Stanley doesn’t have your approval, does he? Just like me, but worse. Worse, because whatever you said to him-!”

“What I said to him was none of your business! I’ve _told_ you that!” His father grinds out but Ford doesn’t stop, “It doesn’t matter! I don’t care! I don’t know what you said to Stanley, but whatever you said - you sent him away!”

His father sputters at this announcement and Ford’s breathing raggedly and he sees Preston to one side. Preston’s normally immaculate hair is mused, face is ruddy. But worse – his eyes…Ford catches a glimpse of the pain in them. The _hurt_. And he’s touching his lips - the lips Ford kissed, the lips Ford _savaged_.

Ford sees this and has to turn away. He turns away only to see his mother. Her face is tight with anguish, hands clutching at one another feverently. She looks so unhappy, her eyes glazed with unshed tears and he’s her son. He should do something. He should comfort her. He should apologize to Preston.

He should do anything but what he continues to do, which is tear into his father, who he redirects all of his attention to, “Somehow you managed to kick him out of my life and I’m _miserable_ without him! Don’t you understand? He left me! And I miss him each and every single goddamn day and even if…”

He sucks in a breath, feels injured as he speaks words he doesn’t want to say, “Even if we’re…we’re separated for years, for _decades_ , I can’t just-just get over him. I can’t move on. I never will. He’s my brother, my twin – he’s part of me! I _love_ him, I-! ”

Ford stalls. His words just cut off and end because what he’s just said…

_I love him._

Stanley…he loves Stanley. _He loves him_. As in…as in love. He’s in love with him. He knew it, has always known it, but he’s never said it, never felt it. Not like this. Not like this. And he never thought…but now he does. Honestly, he doesn’t know how he could have ever thought differently.

He _knows_. He loves him. He loves Stanley, he loves him, _he loves him_ and his father doesn’t pick up on the deeper meaning, merely sneering, “I don’t care how much brotherly love ya got for him! People grow up, Stanford! They go their separate ways – especially siblings! Even if I hadn’t booted him out, he woulda had to go eventually! Christ – you two hafta stop being so goddamn co-dependent on one another!”

“We’re not…” Ford trails off and he just groans. He groans and feels the wonder from his romantic revelation give way back to his earlier anger, “This is _all_ your fault!”

“My fault?” Mr. Pines huffs, eyes rolling, “How the hell is it _my_ fault he’s a fucking _LOSER_ who was leeching offa you, huh? How is it _my_ fault that he’s not worth a goddamn? Actually, you know what?”

He offers a mocking smirk, “You’re _right_ , Stanford. He _is_ my fault ‘cause I had him. I _made_ him! Just like I made you and you two mistakes’ve been costin’ me and your mother ever since you came screechin’ inta this world!”

“Is that how you’re going to view this new kid?” Ford asks, waving to his mother and Filbrick’s face grows an even richer shade of red, “‘Course not! This baby’s gonna be a damned _blessing_ over you two! Gonna be respectful and perfect and you’re gonna help us with it!”

“Me?” Ford just breathes the word because he feels this announcement more viscerally than anything else that’s come to light. Once more his father charges over towards him, encroaches his personal space, voice a deadly rumble, “That’s right. You and your rich boyfriend over there are gonna help us with the move, with money, with…”

Ford’s been shaking his head since the moment his father started and he cuts into his words, interrupting him, something he’s never dared to do before, “No! No, no, NO! I’m not helping you with anything!”

His father’s arms wave out, gesticulating viciously, “You’d do that? You’d do that to us, you ungrateful little shit? You’d let your mother and me-!”

“Not Mom. Not the baby – _you_! I won’t help _you_ ,” Ford gasps and he feels something leaking into him and he realizes he’s shaking, trembling like a leaf on the wind. It’s the cold from earlier. But it’s different now. Before it was fortifying him with strength but now he feels…weak.

Afraid.

He’s _afraid_.

 _Terrified_.

Because it’s suddenly occurred to him that he’s standing up to this man, this monster, and he’s unarmed and unsafe and Stanley isn’t here to protect him. He’s alone, but somehow he manages to go on, “I…I’m not helping you. I won’t. I refuse.”

“You refuse?” his father’s words are laced with threat, with intimidation, and Ford has to close his eyes, has to find his center because he feels precariously close to falling, “Yes. You took Stan from me, you…you hurt me. You hurt me. You. Hurt. Me.”

“I hurt you?” His father repeats the words and Ford makes himself stand up straight, draws away from him. He walks over towards where he’d been sitting and he looks down at his plate. Looks down at the smooth, cool white china and his voice is threadbare, “You hit me. You grabbed me, burned me, cut me…you…”

He draws in a shaky breath, recognizes the sniveling for what it is as he keeps his eyes focused on the plate, tries to ignore his inner turmoil as he gasps, “Mom? Mom….did you-did you know? Did you ever know that he…?”

He hears a chair scrape against the ground. He hears someone walking, moving, and then a door shut. He closes his eyes and his whole body shudders, tears burning his eyes.

“She’s gone,” his father glowers, “You’ve driven her away.”

Ford can’t speak. His throat is clogged with emotion, with _pain_. He wants to just sink down to the floor and _die_.

“She ain’t the first one you’ve driven away either, is she?”

Ford’s head snaps up and his eyes are glazed with tears. He can only see his father through a watery haze and he realizes they’re alone. Preston is gone. His mother is gone. It’s just him and his father. His father shakes his head, “‘S funny…told Stanley he was like me, but you…you’ve got a big chunk of me in you too, don’tcha?”

“I…?”

“Cruelty,” Filbrick offers, “You got my capacity to be _cruel_.”

Ford chokes, Adam’s apple bobbing and he starts shaking his head again, but his father just draws out a cigar. He lights it and takes a heavy drag of it, blowing a thick cloud of smoke into the air, “Yeah, ya do. Bet you’ve hurt your brother, hmm? Bet you’ve said some nasty shit to him. Probably why it was so easy for him to leave. And that kid that was just in here…that Northwest…you treat him poorly too.”

He takes another drag, “Shame. Least ya coulda done was get some money outta him first. He would’ve given it to you…after all; he’s in love with you.”

Ford’s head rears back as if he’s been slapped, “He’s-? No…No, Preston is just…”

“Just your friend?” Filbrick asks, eyebrows rising so as be visible above his shades, “Maybe. Maybe you two aren’t dating, but I’m sure as shit betting that’s not what he wants. Oh no. His love for you 's written all over his pretty, rich boy face.”

Ford feels as if everything in him is sinking and he looks at the plate again. Cool, white china. Flawless. His father laughs darkly, “But ya didn’t see it, did you? Huh…and they say you’re the smart one.”

Ford picks up the plate and lets out a roar. He hurls it at his father who easily dodges it. The plate shatters against the wall behind him, pieces of porcelain spinning wildly off into different directions. Mr. Pines turns to him, shrugging, “You done?”

Ford feels his whole face crumple and he can’t breathe as he sobs, “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why?” he mewls, “Why do you…why do you _hate_ me? Why don’t you…don’t you love me?! I’m your son. I’M YOUR SON!”

The words echo off the walls around them. Mr. Pines takes another steady drag of his cigar, “Yes. You are. Never said I hated you.”

“But you don’t…don’t love me…”

Filbrick licks his lips, “Love is a relative term.”

Ford’s hands go to his hair, tugs at it, and he’s openly weeping. He can barely grab enough air to speak, “I ju- _huh_ -ust…I _duh_ -don’t under-understand…”

Mr. Pines walks closer to him and Ford feels himself shrink, feels himself fold in. Mr. Pines tone is quiet, soft, no heat, “You are my son. So’s Stanley. And this baby…that’s mine too. You’re my children and how I feel about you…”

He lowers his shades, shows his bloodshot eyes, “It’s not something I hafta explain to you. You take whatever the fuck you want from it. But you need to know…I don’t have to justify myself to you. I don’t have to defend myself. I’m your father.”

Ford closes his eyes, shivers, and his father comes even closer, close enough to whisper in Ford’s ear, “I’m not going to lay a hand on him. This new baby. He or she’s a _gift_ …a chance to do it right this time. You want to know what I told Stanley?”

Ford’s head wobbles on his neck as he nods and one corner of his father’s lips curl up, “I told ‘em the truth, told ‘em how you weren’t planned. That you’re a mistake – a six fingered error on my part. How I disgraced your mother - making you possible. But I raised you right – least I thought I did. Thought I put a lid on that smart mouth o’ yours, but here you are tonight…running it off.”

The next moment happens so fast, so quickly – it’s like when a snake strikes, fangs at the ready. Mr. Pines’ tosses his cigar to one side and his left hand goes to the back of Ford’s neck, takes a firm hold of it and _squeezes_ , “You _embarrassed_ me. Embarrassed your mother…you’re gonna pay for that, you hear me?”

Pain rockets through Ford and his eyes screw up tight. He can feel the heat of his father’s breath on him, the scent of scotch filing his nostrils, “You’re gonna pay because you _owe_ me, owe her. You always have. And Stanley?”

The hand, if possible, grows tighter. The strength behind it is bruising, fingernails biting into his skin, “I told him what he already knew. That he’s even worse than a mistake, that he’s _nothing_ …told him he was gonna ruin you. That he’s just like me and if cares a lick about you – he should pack his bags and leave.”

Mr. Pines’ shakes him on some of the words and Ford hisses because the nails dig deeper, piercing flesh. He can feel each individual finger jabbing into the back of his head before he’s finally released. His father straightens his suit, looking completely nonchalant, “Guess he _does_ care about you, huh?”

Ford doesn’t even know what to say to that. His eyes are still closed and the back of his neck aches and he feels like he’s choking. A feeling that only grows worse when he hears a soft, “Or here’s a thought…maybe it’s something you did.”

Ford’s eyes snap open, brown eyes glistening with fresh tears, and he feels his mouth drop open. Something…something he did? His throat starts working and it’s like a lightbulb has illuminated above him. Something he did…

Filbrick’s found the cigar he tossed aside. It’s still good and he takes another hit. He turns and walks away, smoke trailing behind him like a signature of the destruction he’s left in his wake, “Thanks for the dinner.”

Ford hears the door open and close and he can’t do it anymore. He can’t stand anymore. He collapses, boneless, nothing but nerves and tears. He reaches into his shirt and withdraws the triangle necklace. He runs his fingers over the smooth wood and his heart clenches. He tightens his hands around it, buries his face into and Stan’s name escapes him before he’s lost to gut-wrenching sobs, his very heart breaking in two.

 

+

 

Preston’s outside.

Somehow he’s outside. He’s on the street and he’s just walking. He’s far from the restaurant. He didn’t even pay the bill. He should go back. He needs to go back. He needs to help Ford. But instead he just keeps walking. He moves aimlessly and one hand rises, touching his lips. They still _burn_. They _sting_.

_Preston is NOT my boyfriend. I’m not with him._

The words ring in his head over and over and the kiss…should it even be called a kiss? For as long as he’ll live, he’ll never forget the look in Ford’s eyes when he grabbed him. He’ll never forget his tone of voice when he said: _Does that look like we’ve kissed before?_

Preston feels like someone’s hollowed him out. He feels empty, scrapped raw, like a jack-o-lantern. But no candle burns within him, no light. He’s dark, a void. It’s actually a nice night – cool and beautiful. The city is awash with lights. Preston thinks of the things Ford said, the way he acted…

_I can’t just get over him. I can’t move on. I never will. He’s part of me! I love him!_

Somehow he’s found his way into a park. It’s empty and shaded. There’s a flat wooden bench, so he sits on it, mind made up. He draws out his cell and his wallet. He withdraws the card Shandra gave him and dials the number, fingers strong and sure. It rings twice before he hears a questioning tone and he clears his throat, “Hello, is this the manager of The Flesh Curtains?”

Once he gets confirmation he continues, “Yes, my name is Preston Northwest and I’m interested in booking the band…”

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Drug use, drinking, violence, black out/hangover-type shenanigans

**~~Hey Sixer~~ **

**~~‘Sup Poindext-~~ **

**How’s it hangi-**

Stan grimaces and erases the e-mail. It would have been a chore to do this on his old cell phone, but the new one Rick’s made makes it easy. The typing part – not so much the what to _say_ part. He tries again.

**Ford**

**Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. My old cell broke but Rick threw me together a new one. Think you’d really like it – it’s a helluva fancy gizmo, lots of bells and whistles. Life on the road’s good. Band’s doin’ great. I play with them almost every show now and they’ve even played some of my songs. Don’t think I told you that before – Rock Face, Never Gonna Happen, even Nerd Next to Me. I also’ve come up with a buncha new stuff.**

**Anyway, about your Operation: BS or whatever, I’m not sure about the band coming, but maybe I could come? Promised you I wasn’t moving out and I’ve been out on the road long enough and even though I shouldn’t-**

**~~This is dumb~~ **

**~~So fuckin’ STUPID~~ **

**~~Miss you, fuck~~ **

**~~NEED you~~ **

Stan grunts, his fingers pressing hard on the flat surface of the phone to the point where he fears he might actually break it. Wouldn’t that be great? Two broken cell phones. Although Rick assured him that this one is damn near unbreakable and it probably is. It sure as hell _feels_ sturdy. Still, he’s holding it hard, squeezing it, because this is even harder than he thought it would be.

The words in front of him float. All of them look too damned ridiculous to be real. Besides, he hasn’t officially made up his mind about going home. He’s resting on this precarious fence, trying to choose which way to go. It’s a friggin’ Clash song - should he stay or should he go? He’s just not sure which direction is best. Despite Rick’s talk, he’s still uncertain. He just…

He doesn’t want to go back and hurt Ford. He doesn’t want to be a burden, doesn’t want to tell him all the awful things their father said, and he certainly doesn’t want to present the possibility that he could turn into their old man. Rick swears up and down that’s impossible, but Stan’s not completely sold. He wants to be. But wanting something and feeling it, _truly_ feeling it – well, that’s a different matter entirely.

Not to mention he’s built something for himself here. Being on the road, traveling with the band, taking care of Beth – he’d miss all of that too. In some ways, it’s been nice to be separate from Ford – to be noticed for his own merits and abilities, to stand out. But it’s not as if he can’t do that with Ford by his side. In some ways – that’s what this has all been about, proving that he can make it on his own and he has.

Stan can go back now, head held high, knowing he can make it solo. Knowing it, but recognizing that he would much rather be part of a duet. A ‘we’ instead of an ‘I’. Still, it’s all so precarious and he’s not sure what can possibly clench this for him, what can propel him into one decision, one course of action. Though lord knows, Rick’s been trying.

First there’s the periodic texts he gets with photos of Ford. Apparently Rick managed to salvage some of them from Stan’s old phone, so now they just keep getting sent to him. Day, night – doesn’t matter. There’s a ding, Stan checks his phone and there’s a picture he took of Ford. Hell, some of them aren’t even ones he took, but ones Ford himself posted on his damned Tumblr. This leads to the next plan of attack – links.

Stan finds links posted everywhere. He rarely uses social media, but due to his job as band bitch, he now makes an effort. He needs to make sure fans are informed about concert venues, times, signings, merchandise, etc and nothing is better for that than Facebook, Twitter and so on. Which leads him to posted links that take him directly to Ford’s work. Ford is always oddly shy about his artwork. He has no problem talking you into the ground about science, but he’s strangely squirrely when it comes to his drawings.

So, a lot of what Stan sees is new to him. Granted, he could just not click the link but, well, curiosity. It burns within him, stronger than he thought possible, and every link that comes he clicks. Clicks to find all sort of amazing pieces. He doesn’t really recognize any of the characters, but the skill is easy to recognize and some of them…well, some of them are heavily sexual in nature. Ford had shown him the one in which the man was in the middle of a gang-bang, but there are _more_.

More images of various couples in the throes of ecstasy and it’s…it’s stimulating. Especially when one is of two men, one with his legs thrown over the other’s shoulders and he’s nibbling the inside of his inner thighs and Christ, this is _exactly_ what he did to Ford. This is what he did the first time they finally gave into one another. Sometimes he can close his eyes and still taste Ford’s skin under his tongue, can hear his brother’s passionate moans in his ears.

The photos, the links – they’re all subtle hints from Rick to Stan that he should go home, that he should reunite with Ford and as much as he’s tempted, it’s still not quite the push he needs. And since, Rick’s not normally the subtle type, he goes his regular route. He comes out full guns blazing. It shouldn’t surprise him that Sanchez is willing to play dirty, but the levels which he’s willing to sink to…

The band has a concert in a few hours, so Stan’s setting up some equipment when Beth comes over to him. Normally during this part of their set up she’s with Rick. Mainly because at this point he’s in his dressing room getting his costume and make-up ready. It’s her favorite part of the prep; she’s always well behaved when Rick’s applying eyeliner and painting his nails and such. Sometimes he even paints on her face and she’s come to Stan, dressed up to the nines.

Usually he enjoys it, because she’s adorable, but he’s always a little miffed that Rick just lets her casually stroll about. She’s just a little thing – it’s not that she necessarily needs constant supervision but still…if something happened to her …

But Rick argues that his girl, no matter how young, has a good head on her shoulders. Besides, it’s not like she’s wandering the open streets of Calziptour 7 (wherever the hell that is and Stan’s pretty damned sure it’s made up). Besides, it’s not like she’s walking far – only a few feet. So here she comes today, all big smiles and swishy princess dress, and she’s holds two pieces of paper. She shoves one at Stan just as he turns away from a mic check, “For you!”

Stan takes it, frowning at the scribbles. It’s two stick figures, both with brown blobs for hair, but one has longer hair and the other? The other clearly has six fingers on each hand. He looks at Beth who giggles, “It’s you and Ferd!”

“Oh, uh…thanks, pumpkin,” Stan says, voice soft but throat squeezed tight. Beth continues, an innocuous little bullet to his heart, “Daddy said you gonna see him soon.”

Stan does his valiant best not to glare at her, “Did he?”

Her head wobbles in an over exaggerated nod, “I was sad, but Daddy told me ta be a big girl and I am!”

Beth flexes her little arms and then puts her chubby hands on either side of her waist, her pose very reminiscent of a super hero, “I’m strong!”

“You are,” Stan assures her and she gives him a goofy grin, “I make a picture for Ferd too!”

She hands him the other picture. It’s almost exactly the same as the one she’s given Stan, but in this one the Stan figure is holding the Ford one over his shoulder, caveman style. They both look very happy about it, oversized smiley faces in place. Stan snorts, unable to help himself, “This one’s, ah, pretty accurate, sweetie. I’m sure he’d love it.”

“ _I’m_ gonna give it to him!” She boasts as she takes the picture back and clutches it to her chest, “Daddy said I could!”

Stan’s eyebrows knit together, “Whattya mean?”

Beth’s body wiggles from side to side and she sticks some fingers in her mouth, plays with it as she speaks, “Goin’ ta see ‘im! Me, you, ‘n Daddy! Birdie an’ Squishy too!”

Stan knows she means Bird Person and Squanchy and he frowns – they’re _all_ going to see Ford? What on earth is she talking about? He knows it’s not wise to try and grill the kid, so he merely gives her a big smile and pats her head, ruffling her golden hair, “I’ll bet. How about I set you up with a movie, huh, kiddo?”

“Movie!” she screeches and he leads her to a break room with a television set. He sets her up with a Disney movie on full blast, when he hears a knock at the door. He goes to find Bird Person standing there. As always, he looks stoic, “Stanley, I have been charged with Beth’s care while you go and speak with Rick.”

Stan sucks in a loud breath, “Of course you have.”

Stan exits and Bird Person takes his place, which is fantastic, because Stan is more than ready to charge into Rick’s dressing room and have this out. He doesn’t even knock on the door, just barges in to see Rick lounging on a couch. He’s got his spiked boots half on, his leather pants unzipped and he’s chugging from his flask. He sees Stan and wipes at his mouth, “Well, well, well – if-if it isn’t my best buddy, Stanley Pines!”

He shuts the door behind him, leans against it, arms folded, “What the hell’s going on?”

“Nothing much. You?”

“Cut the crap, Rick! Beth’s telling me she’s going to meet Ford. That you all are! I thought you weren’t kicking me out!”

Rick runs a hand through his hair and sits up, elbows on his knees, ‘”I’m-I’m not.”

“Then why-?”

“Thought-thought after our-our little chaaa- _urp!_ -at coupla days ago, you’d get a clue. Think about heading back home. But you stuck with us. Not gonna say I was sorry about it. You’re-you’re a good band bitch, Stan. Best-best we ever had. Good at what you do, good with Beth. Gotta say, I woulda been sorry to see you go. But I-I sent you the texts and the links anyways. Just-just to test the waters, y’know? See how committed you are. And booooy are you.”

Stan glowers and looks away, feeling oddly resentful at Rick’s words. The rocker continues, “Guess-guess Ford doesn’t-doesn’t mean all that much to you after all, huh?”

“That’s _not_ true,” Stan bites out and Rick rolls his eyes, “Yeah, well, whatever. It doesn’t matter. We ARE all going to meet him, because we’ve got a show back in that Podunk we picked you up from.”

Stan blinks rapidly, arms uncrossing and he draws away from the door to stand taller, “What?”

Rick nods, picks up his flask and takes another long pull of it, “Yup. Manager called. Said we got booked for some show at some coffee shop. Called-called Operation: Babies or somethin’. Dunno, think it’s a charity event. Mean…I hate those, but the money’s good, and when Mr. Poopy Butthole tells us to go someplace, we go.”

When he first started touring with the band, Stan asked how on earth their manager got the name ‘Mr. Poppy Butthole’. He still regrets asking. Regardless, this revelation leaves him spinning. If Rick sees his inner turmoil, he doesn’t show it. Instead he rises to his feet, wobbling slightly and letting out a belch. He zips up his pants and sighs, “Plus-plus side is our openin’ act ain’t coming with us. Don’t get me wrong – Greg Universe is a talented son of a bitch, but if I gotta hear him tell me that if every pork chops were perfect we’d never have hot dogs one more time, I’m-I’mma lose my shit. Like, that overly positive crap makes me wanna cram a nuclear enema up my ass.”

Rick’s words might as well fall on deaf ears. Stan can’t stop thinking about it – about going home. He’s struggled with this for so long and now – now it’s as if the choice is being taken away from him. But he wants to go home, doesn’t he? He wants to see Ford. But when he sees Ford, if he sees Ford…

Both of his hands run up either side of his head, fingers burying themselves into his hair and clutching because, Christ, shit, fuck! What is he supposed to do? What is he supposed to say? How is he supposed to act? He can’t even write Ford an e-mail, much less see him and talk to him face to face. And what about what their father said? What about the kind of person he is, the kind of person he could become and he feels a well of panic rise up within him, choking him, he feels close to hysterical as he gasps, “Can’t.”

“What-what’s that?”

“I can’t,” Stan huffs, “I can’t go with you. I can’t see him. I can’t-! I’m not ready! I’m not-!”

“Just-just calm down, Pines. Don’t-don’t even trip, dawg,” the phrase is forced and weird and Stan looks at him as if he’s lost his mind, “Don’t-? I haven’t seen my brother in _three_ months, Rick! We’ve barely spoken and before I left we were…Christ, I don’t even _know_! What the hell am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say?! How can you-?! How can I-?! Who even PAID for the band to go to this thing?!”

“I did,” a voice speaks up and Stan nearly jumps out of his skin. He’d been so focused on Rick and his own thoughts that he didn’t even hear the door open behind him. He turns and there, leaning against the doorframe, is Preston Northwest. He looks completely cool and nonchalant. He’s wearing a charcoal grey suit, a white button up shirt beneath – the top few buttons stylishly undone, a black scarf hanging open around his throat.

He looks at Rick and winks, “Sanchez.”

“Richie Rich,” Rick returns and Stan’s head snaps back and forth between them, “You two know each other?”

“Not-not until recently. Met-met him tonight when he handed me THIS FAT CHECK, SON!” Rick’s voice rises as he withdraws a check to waggle in Stan’s face. Stan can already tell it has far too many zeros after some other, much bigger numbers. The amount written on it is ridiculous. Insane. How can anyone even _have_ that kind of money?

Rick continues, “Thought-thought it was total bullshit ‘till I checked it out and it-it- _urp_! CLEARED. Now-now this future Mr. Burns knock off’s my best friend.”

Preston rolls his eyes, “Hmm, yes, whatever you say, Future Rod Stewart.”

“Rod-Rod Stewart?” Rick scowls, “That’s-that’s _low_ , you wealthy piece of shit!”

“Is it? How low do you think you’d be willing to get?” Preston teases and he withdraws a five hundred dollar bill from his breast pocket, waving it to and fro. Both Stan and Rick look at the bill, nearly salivating. Rick shakes his head roughly, “Urrr – _no_! No! You’re-you’re not-not gonna get me to whore myself out for that!”

Preston draws out another five hundred and Rick sticks out his bottom lip, nodding, “Okay, well then – I’m-I’m gonna be the best whore you’ve-you’ve ever had, Northwest. Talking-talking Nicole Kidman ‘Moulin Rouge’ quality, minus the consumption.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Preston assures him and he hands Rick the money as if it’s nothing, “Just having some fun with you. Take it. This is chump change.”

“I never thought I’d say this to anybody but – I love you.”

Preston laughs and shakes his head, patting his arm, “You don’t know me all that well.”

“Wasn’t talking to you,” Rick mutters, almost offended as he shrugs Preston’s hand off, “Was-was talking to the money.”

“Hmm, strange. You don’t seem the type that swayed by monetary values.”

“I am and I’m not,” Rick adds absently as he shoves the two bills down deep into his pants, clearly putting them near his balls, “Don’t-don’t try to label me, Northwest.”

“Fair enough. Would you two fellows care to join me for a drink prior to the performance?” Preston steps back from the door and spreads one hand out invitingly. Rick nods, “Al-always up for that! Better-better be getting me some top shelf stuff!”

“Nothing but the finest,” Preston assures him, “When your manager informed me of your whereabouts, I thought it only appropriate to seal the deal in person and then celebrate our accord. I am well aware of your many vices and while I am afraid I am unable to provide you with any illegal contraband at this time, my family does have a personal mixologist on retainer. I’ve brought him with me and set him to task in the private lounge. We’ve brought several premium vodkas, gins, tequilas…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah – waaaaaaaaaaaaay ahead of you,” Rick nearly howls as he rushes towards the lounge area. Stan hasn’t said a word since Preston’s arrival. He’s been too busy stewing at the mere sight of him. Preston Northwest. Just the name sets his teeth on edge and here he is – in the flesh. Looking so goddamn unflappable. And his tone. So condescending. How can Rick be okay with any of this?

Surely Rick’s already seen through him. Surely Rick knows, has recognized, how Preston is an unbelievable piece of shit. Even if Ford hasn’t and that’s the part that rubs Stan the wrong way. Ford’s said Preston’s changed; Ford’s been taking classes with him, spending time with him. With Preston Northwest. The same Preston Northwest who mocked his fingers, who teased him, who upset him time and time again.

Preston Northwest.

The only person in the world who Stan can conceivably hate more than his father. And Preston just turns to him, all straight, perfect white teeth set in a blinding, genial smile, “It’s good to see you, Stanley. It’s been far too long.”

“What’re you up to, Northwest!”

“Up to?” Preston gasps as if to even suggest anything underhanded on his part is inconceivable, “Why, Stanley! I merely wished to employ this band! The fact that you’re touring with them is merely a happy coincidence.”

“Bullshit!”

“Language,” he returns as he too starts walking towards the lounge but Stan stops him, takes him hard by one shoulder and turns him to face him, snarling, “BULLSHIT.”

Preston draws away from Stan and brushes his hands along his suit as if unaffected, as if Stan’s just a fly to be batted away and his anger boils ever higher as Preston resumes his walking. Stan stalks after him, waiting, waiting, and finally Preston speaks, tone dulcet, “Oh! Actually, I…well,” he laughs dryly, “I _did_ wish to speak with you about a, ah, delicate matter.”

“And that is?”

Preston sticks out his bottom lip, shrugs in this imitation of an ‘aw, shucks’ sort of gesture, “It’s about your brother.”

“Ford,” Stan’s never said his brother’s name with such warning. But if Preston hears it, he doesn’t show it, still walking, walking, _walking_. Long smooth strides, lean muscular legs working with great efficiency. Stan wants to snap them in half.

“Yes. As I’m sure you’re aware, your…departure has given us an ample amount of time to get to know one another better. To bury the hatchet as it were. We’ve become quite close.”

A thin red veil is falling over Stan’s vision, his fingers are turning into clawed caricatures of their normal form and he’s damn near panting now, air loudly whistling in and out of his nose as Preston just drones on, “Anyway, it’s occurred to me that your return is very unlikely, despite the promises you made your brother. It has, after all, been a few months since you left. You said you weren’t moving out, but I think you and I can be honest enough with one another to admit that that was, clearly, a lie on your part. A gentle falsehood to reassure your no doubt distraught sibling – or should I say lover?”

Stan goes stock still at the word, but Preston doesn’t stop, still walking, still talking, “Yes, yes – I am quite aware of your less than familial bond and I’m sure you agree it’s quite scandalous. Much too inappropriate. I can only assume this is why you left. There might have been _other_ mitigating factors, but I’m sure this is the backbone of your abandonment; your shame over your involvement with your brother.”

“It’s not like that,” Stan hisses, “I am _not_ ashamed of Ford! Of what we-! You don’t know what the fuck yer talkin’ about, Northwest!”

“Mmm, I’m afraid I do,” Preston says in the most annoyingly patronizing voice, “And I understand! Truly! It makes perfect sense that you would leave Ford behind; that you would desire a life separate from him. Perhaps you’ve even found a new arrangement, yes? Sleeping with the lead singer of a popular band – there’s no shame in that! Rick Sanchez is a fine prize! And I’m sure he’s quite…vigorous between the sheets. If you even use a bed at all.”

It’s impossible for Stan to answer. He didn’t even know it was possible to be this mad. To be this-this furious. And Preston just doesn’t stop. If anything, he’s like a pitcher, winding up, winding up and here it comes, “Which leads me to my delicate matter – you see, I’m seeking your permission.”

Somehow words manage to come, albeit haltingly, “My-my-?”

“Yes! Your permission to pursue Ford,” Preston explains and when Stan says nothing he elaborates, “Romantically.”

Both Preston and Stan have stopped walking. They stand outside the swinging doors to the lounge and Stan feels like all the air in the world has evaporated. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. It’s like someone ran in and blindly hit him on the head with a tack hammer. He stands there, struck by the lightning of Preston’s words. Finally, “But…you’re-you’re not-?”

“Not gay?” Preston offers easily, clearly not feeling the same shift of the very foundations of the earth that Stan’s feeling, “True, but I’m…branching out. And Ford…well, he’s…well, you know.”

The last is added with this misplaced sense of mutual understanding, “I mean, I am aware that, in the past, you and I never saw eye to eye, but on this matter…,” he shrugs again, “Your brother is so…surprisingly naïve. For someone with such genius, he’s quite…malleable. I feel I can mold him into a proper companion. Isn’t that what you wish for him? Wealth, fame, love – all things that you, certainly, cannot provide.”

The red veil is growing thicker. Stronger. It’s wrapping around Stan, hugging him so tight as to crush him, suffocate him, and the claws that were once his hands have formed fists, shaking fists that are barely restrained.

“And security! Surely, _I_ will provide that _far_ better than _you_ ever could!”

“No,” the word is a cold whisper, a deadly one, but Preston doesn’t look deterred. If anything, his smile grows wider, expression still insufferably _pleasant_ , “No? Huh,” he says the ‘huh’ as if he’s _actually_ shocked Stan would refuse him, “Well, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? I asked for your permission merely to be civil. To show some…deference to Ford’s previous paramour slash twin. But, seeing as your ill guided fling has long since concluded, and you’ve chosen to keep your distance, it’s not as if there’s anything standing in my way.”

“HE’LL NEVER-!” Stan starts shouting but Preston shushes him, acts as if he’s soothing an unruly child, “Now, now – there’s no reason to get angry! Besides…he already has.”

Stan deflates as a lance of ice shatters throughout his chest. Has Ford-? Has he and…and Preston? Have they-? He can’t think it, can’t form the thought, the idea. But it’s come to him all the same, unbidden and devastating. He sees it in his mind’s eye, envisions it with a clarity he’s unaware his imagination’s capable of producing until this moment.

Ford under Preston, them kissing, lips locked in fiery combat. Wet and hungry or – no, worse – _loving_. Soft and tender, sweet and gentle, bodies rocking against one another and Ford is moaning, whimpering, making the same sounds he made for Stanley, but now he’s making them for _Preston_ …

“Not the way you’re thinking,” Preston’s voice cuts in clearly, eviscerating the fantasy, “No, nothing so coarse as that. I have had yet to make my move.”

He edges closer to Stanley, gets in his personal space, and when he speaks his words come with unwavering confidence, with absolute conviction, “But I will, Pines. I’ll seduce your brother. I’ve already managed to win him as a loyal friend, it’s only a matter of time before I…how shall I put it? Conquer him? Deflower him? Maybe something more primal, more carnal, lower…something even _you_ can understand…what is that phrase? I’ll get in his pants?”

The red veil. It’s no longer a veil. It’s all Stan sees, it’s all he is. Red.

“After all, it’s not as if _you’ll_ be around to protect him. Whatever shall Ford do without his white knight? It’ll be _so_ easy. Child’s play. I’ll have him in my bed just like,” he snaps his fingers, looks positively gleeful, “And he’ll _want_ to be there, Pines. He’ll be _begging_ for it, _begging_ for _me_. Unlike you – _I_ keep my promises. And I promise you – I _will_ fuck your brother.”

That’s it. That’s the last of it. The red crashes down on Stanley, slams into him with explosive force as he lets out a battle cry and throws himself at Preston. The two crash through the swing doors of the lounge and collapse on the hard tiled floor in a heap. They’re scrambling all over one another, fists flying, legs kicking and it’s not just a fight. It’s a _war_.

They tear away at one another with unbridled hostility and there’s the tiniest kernel in the back of Stan’s mind that’s…surprised. The last time he fought Preston it was easy. But this time…

This time he hasn’t taken Preston by surprise and the other man isn’t pulling his punches. Literally. One strikes Stan’s chin and knocks him back. Preston gets to his feet and it becomes a bit more of a classic brawl, a true boxer’s bout. Stan’s shocked at Preston’s form it’s…good. Which just serves to stoke his anger. He’s on his feet as well, fists raised, defense ready as the first blow comes. Stan deflects it, tries his own, misses and gets caught in a cross. He curses himself – amateur move.

He tries again and this time makes contact. He gets in three sharp shots – two to Preston’s face, one to his gut, and he grunts in pain as Stan goes in for the kill. But Preston is not easily defeated, countering the next few moves. The two trade jabs and blows, some dodged, some taken and they’re panting, growling, shooting one another death glares, all the false diplomacy from earlier stripped away.

There’s also a sound in the background and Stan realizes, with some shock, that it’s…applause. Hoots and hollers. He turns, just for a second, to see Rick. He’s seated at the bar, bottle of booze in one hand, the mixologist behind him looking unimpressed, this just another bar fight to him.

It’s a mistake to look away, even for a moment, because Preston’s fist connects with Stan’s left cheek, knocking him back and Stan staggers, cursing as Preston snaps, “Come on, Pines! Give it up! You want to stay out here, don’t you?! You don’t _want_ to come back! You gave up on Ford so easily, so why should you even care if I-!”

The rant ends in a ‘whuf’ sound as Stan bellows and charges Preston again, grabs him around his middle and knocks him to the ground, he clambers over top of him, shaking him, “EASY?! Are you outta your fucking MIND?! It wasn’t _EASY_!”

“Wasn’t it?” Preston gurgles out, teeth stained pink with blood and the bastard is _smiling_ , so Stan grumbles, “You keep your hands offa him, Northwest!”

“Or what? Who’s going to stop me?”

“I am,” Stan swears and Preston just lets out a nasty little laugh, “But you’re not going to be there, are you? You _left_ , Stanley! You’re gone! You’ve forfeited any right to-!”

“He’s MINE,” Stan cries into Preston’s face as his hands clench into either side of his suit jacket, shaking him, “He belongs to me, I belong to him – we…we’re a goddamn ‘we’! There _is_ nobody else! There never will be! Not EVER!”

“So…you’re going back?” Preston asks and his eyes…there’s a light there. One Stan doesn’t understand and barely sees, barely thinks of, because he’s too caught up in the fever of what he’s screaming into his opponent’s face, “YES. I keep my fucking promises! I’m not moving out, I’m not leaving him, I’m not giving up on him and I’m not ashamed of him!”

“You’re going home then? Why? Just to stop me?”

“ _No_ , you stupid, arrogant son of a rich bitch! I’m going home because I _LOVE_ him!” Stan hears himself say the words. He hears them, but doesn’t even remember thinking them. He doesn’t think he’s ever actually said it aloud before. He’s thought it, but he’s never…the words, they just…leave him. Escape him, elemental and ringing truer than anything. _I love him. I love Ford. I…_

Stan draws back from Preston. His ass hitting the tile as he sits there, eyes wide as he quietly, numbly, repeats, “I love him.”

Preston slowly curls up, rubs at his wounded jaw and gives a nod, “Well then…looks like my job is done.”

This announcement makes Stan’s gaze snap to him, “What?”

He doesn’t get an answer. Just Preston drawing out his own flask, taking a sip and in the background he hears Rick whoop, “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh shiiiiiit, son! He PLAYED you! He fucking HUSTLED you!”

No. Stan looks at Preston, who won’t look at him. Preston just sips his flask, eyes downcast. Finally Stan says the word, “No.”

Preston just lets out a questioning hum and Stan elaborates, “You…you did not just con me.”

“Con you?” Preston snorts, face a mask of sarcasm, “No, I would never.”

“You-?” Stan doesn’t even know what to say, “Why?”

Preston just shrugs and he looks…different. He looks like a completely different person. Totally removed from the one Stan remembers, the one Stan knows and suddenly, it’s as if a lightbulb goes off over his head, “You-? You’re not…?”

Preston glares at him and Stan can’t seem to ask the question. Normally his mouth has no problem running away from him, but for now it seems restrained, unable to ask if Preston is gay. Instead, “You-you really care about him, don’t you? Ford?”

Another shrug.

“Do you-? I mean…you-? You’re actually…in love with him, aren’t you?”

This question finally gets Preston’s attention. His eyes swing to Stan’s and his eyes…Stan’s never noticed…they’re blue. Blue grey. But not steel, no, something…softer. Like the sky after a rain breaks. Preston sighs, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” Stan returns, “Ford…you’re in love with Ford.”

Preston’s lips twitch, a mockery of an attempted smile, “Aren’t you?”

“Whaaa- _urp!_ -at does-does this guy have? A-a gold plated cock or somethin’?” Rick snorts and he gets up from his seat, goes over to the two and crouches down near them, “That-that was a helluva brawl, guys. Really-really top notch stuff. Like-like low level UFC or something…maybe-maybe something else though ‘cause-‘cause of that-that soap opera bullshit…”

Stan rolls his eyes, “Thanks, Rick.”

“Speak-speakin’ of gold plated cocks,” he nudges Preston, “You-you got one ‘a those, rich boy?”

Now Preston rolls his eyes, “No.”

“You-you sure? ‘Cause…’cause you do have an impressive chub going on there,” he gestures towards Preston’s crotch and Preston reddens, rolls his knees up closer to himself as he clears his throat, “Do not.”

“Please,” Rick blows a raspberry, chugging some of his bottle of liquor before continuing, “It’s-it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You were fighting the doppelgänger of the guy you wanna bone. So you got a bone- _r_. It’s not rocket science. Or-or hey, maybe-maybe you gotta thing for Stanley too, huh? I-I get it – he’s-he’s one fine piece of ass.”

Preston looks at Stan and instantly colors. And Stan? He feels…awkward. He rubs a hand at the back of his head as he gently intones, “Shut up, Rick.”

“Hey! How’s-how’s about the three of us knock off fer the night? Talking ‘bout-‘bout REALLY partying, getting riggity riggity wrecked! I got this-this new shit…it’ll blow your mind, man,” Rick reaches into his leather vest and draws out a hypodermic needle. Stan really doesn’t want to know what’s in it. He also doesn’t want to know how Rick kept it so concealed on his person. How can that vest even _have_ pockets?

Shaking his head, he tries one of the most shocking things ever, he tries being _responsible_ , “Rick, you’ve got a show in less than an hour.”

Rick waves an uninterested hand as he toys with the syringe, “I’ll just-just put a Meek Seeks on it. Rig ‘im with-with a hologram. It’ll be like Jem and the Holo- _urp_!-Holograms! The 80s cartoon, not-not that piece of shit film.”

“Me-? What?” Preston asks and then jumps slightly because Rick’s started rolling up one of his sleeves. He bats him away, “I’d thank you _not_ to drug me without my permission!”

“Wasn’t-wasn’t gonna do it without _asking_ first! What kinda guy do you take me for?! No, I was just…just getting you prepped,” Rick replies as he waves the needle at him, “See? I didn’t stick it in! I’d NEVER stick it in without full consent.”

“Lovely,” Preston murmurs and he eyes Stan, “ _This_ is the company you’ve kept since leaving Ford and the gaggle of people you consider your friends?”

“What do you mean ‘consider’?”

Preston’s about to answer, but Rick’s shooting a look between him and the needle. Preston sneers, “No, thank you. I’d prefer not to inject that poison into my system. Not to mention needles are…” He stops talking, shuddering enough to get his point across.

Rick sticks out his bottom lip, “Alright, alright fair enough. I get it. Mean, injection’s one of the quickest way to get high, but I can get how it’s not everyone’s cuppa tea. Save this for later,” he tucks away the needle into whatever the hell pocket he pulled it from in the first place, “How’s-how’s about some Collaxion Crystals? You-you gotta snor- _urp_!-snort ‘em, but they give you a good, quick high.”

The blatant, blasé expression on Preston’s face makes Stan laugh. He doesn’t want to, but it’s kind of hard not to. The guy just looks so done. And beat to shit. Stan did that. Not that Preston didn’t get his own good licks in. Stan winces as he touches his own face and then he sucks in a heavy breath, “You know what? Why the fuck not? One wild night ‘fore I head home. Go get your Me Sees and your crystals and whatever the hell else you want. Might as well set the night on fire, go down in a blaze of glory,” he gets to his feet, grimacing the whole time because his whole body fucking _hurts_. He looks down at Preston and finds himself doing the second most shocking thing ever as he extends a hand to him, “You game, Northwest?”

The other man blinks up at him repeatedly, mouth working silently. Stan suspects at any moment Preston will say, ‘I beg your pardon!’ or bark out some other such expression but instead? Instead Preston goes about being just as shocking as Stanley as he takes his hand, “I am indeed.”

 

+

 

Stan wakes up sore all over. He also wakes up to find Preston Northwest in his arms. He draws back, stunned. Then immediately shoves Preston as bodily away from him as possible, causing the other man to roll over and fall off the mattress. Preston lands with a loud thud on to the carpeted ground of the trailer, a loud whoosh of breath escaping him on impact.

Stan doesn’t care, too preoccupied with his own thoughts, sluggish as they may be. Preston was cuddled up in his arms…fuck, he was holding him so close. He sits up and checks himself all over. He’s fully clothed. He looks over to see Preston wearily sit up and he too, is fully clothed. Thank god.

“Thank god,” Stan grumbles.

Preston merely groans groggily and squints at Stan. He doesn’t actually speak so much as make questioning noises. Stan doesn’t need words to know what he’s asking so he answers him, “Don’t know. Kinda hazy…been a long time since I’ve been this hungover.”

“Is that what this is?” Preston moans and Stan glares at him, “You’ve _never_ been hungover before?”

“Do I _look_ like the kind of fellow who’s been hungover before?” Preston returns acidly and Stan just shrugs, “Don’t know what you get up to on your free time. Maybe one too many glasses of Cristal at your golf club proms or whatever you rich people do.”

Preston just shoots him a baleful look and gets to his feet. He wobbles some and turns slightly green. Stan reaches out and catches one of his wrists, “Whoa, hey! Come on, sit down. Don’t want you to upchuck everywhere.”

He does as suggested, taking a heavy seat next to Stan. They sit there in silence, both struggling with bouts of nausea and headaches. Finally Stan works up the will to speak, “We should probably get something to eat. There’s a diner within walking distance. You game?”

He gets a shaky nod and they exit the trailer together. They both walk with a listless gait throughout the parking lot. Stan sends quick texts to Rick, Bird Person, and Squanchy – just to get a feel for where they are. The last thing he remembers they were all in the lounge, playing drinking games and hearing the back beats of the fake ‘Flesh Curtains’. Apparently Rick summoned up more Meek Seeks rigged with hologram tech for Bird Person and Squanchy. He even sent one to keep an eye on Beth.

Stan still doesn’t understand the whole Meek Seeks thing – he vaguely recalls seeing guys that looked like real-life blue Gumbys, but he’s pretty sure that’s when the liquor starting kicking in – alongside the crystals, because he’d be lying if said he didn’t take a _tiny_ snort. After all, he’s still young and stupid enough to give drugs a chance if they’re free. Besides, he hasn’t smoked a cigarette for almost a month now, so he has to get his vices somewhere.

Not that he thinks he’ll ever touch the crystals again. No, scratch that – he _knows_ he never will. He feels so much like shit today, he can’t imagine wanting to touch that stuff again. Hell, he can’t imagine wanting to touch _alcohol_ again! And as if a hangover wasn’t enough, his face and body still ache from the places where Preston got his punches in.

One eye looks a little black and there are noticeable cuts on his face. Preston wears a similar set – bottom lip cut, right eyebrow marred. They’re both black and blue in spots, their hair mussed; clothing rumpled as they enter the diner and get seated in a booth by a window. Stan’s phone dings with two messages.

Bird Person’s is as to the point as always – he’s released his Meek Seeks (apparently this is very important) as well as Beth’s. He’s now watching her as he, direct quote, ‘meditates on the previous night’s events’. Squanchy’s message is pretty similar, minus the part about Beth.

Rick has had yet to answer, but this doesn’t surprise Stan. He’s probably still passed out somewhere. Rick always parties the hardest and is usually the last to rise. He puts his phone away as a waitress comes over to take their orders. He asks for biscuits, sausage gravy, and bacon as well as water, water, _water_. He needs hydration desperately. He looks to Preston, expecting the uppity punk to balk at ordering anything, but much to his surprise he asks for a roast beef sandwich and macaroni and cheese, as well as both water and coffee.

With the waitress gone and the texts taken care of it, Stan and Preston are left in the precarious position of being alone together. They haven’t really been alone with one another since this whole mess started. Well, Stan guesses so – obviously they ended up in the same trailer alone together, the same bed together and he’s been searching his memory _hard_ , trying to explain why _that_ happened. Their drinks come and Preston’s stirring sugar into his coffee when Stan finally says, “So.”

That’s it. Just the one word.

Preston sips his coffee and then looks up, “So?”

Stan licks his lips and takes a big gulp of his water before continuing, “Uh, last night. That was…fun?”

“You sound uncertain.”

“Gotta be honest with ya – I don’t remember a lot of it.”

Preston looks an interesting cross between extraordinarily unhappy and relieved as he admits, “Neither do I.”

“Really?” Stan chuckles and Preston’s frowns, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Just…you don’t seem the type to get black-out fucked up.”

“I did not get-!” Preston gasps, scandalized, and for some reason it reminds Stan of an old woman, clutching at her pearls and he laughs more. Preston’s face reddens, “It’s not funny! I’ll have you know that’s the-the first time I’ve ever overindulged in any-!”

“I was yer first time?” Stan teases and, if anything, Preston’s face grows a darker shade of red. Suddenly Stan realizes that Ford’s right – Preston _is_ different. He’s more…humble. And certainly more fun to tease. Or maybe before, it wasn’t so much tease as insult. That’s what he and Preston did – that was all they’d ever done. Hurl insults at one another. Well, that and fists.

Now here they are – having a conversation of a sorts and the food arrives quicker than Stan expected. Preston picks up a knife and fork and cuts daintily into his sandwich, making Stan roll his eyes. Okay, Preston hasn’t changed _that_ much. Preston catches the eye roll and sighs dramatically, “You and your brother! You two truly are peas in a pod! I don’t like picking up the sandwich with my hands. It’s,” he wrinkles his nose, “So…tactile.”

“It’s a sandwich.”

“Yes and it feels,” he recoils at the thought, “I’d rather not describe it.”

“So, you _have_ picked up a sandwich before with your fancy rich boy hands? You don’t _always_ use your silver spoon?”

He frowns, “Why would I use a spoon?”

Stan picks at his own biscuits, dips one of them deep in the gravy, “I’m more makin’ a reference to your high falutin’ ways. Not touching your sandwich, every hair in place…”

“I’ll have you know I’m not always immaculate,” Preston says the words, but it’s obvious he doesn’t believe them and, what’s more, seems disappointed that they’re not true, “And my ‘silver spoon’ ways are not to be disparaged.”

“Oh sure, ‘cause you _never_ ‘disparged’ me and Ford’s lack of cash.”

“It’s ‘ _disparaged’_ and ‘Ford and I’! Say things properly!”

Stan chuckles, “Wow. No wonder you and Ford are gettin’ along. You probably just grammar troll everybody.”

“No,” Preston hisses, “Your brother and I get along because he’s a surprisingly well-heeled individual who gave me a chance. He gave me a chance to be a part of your motely little crew and I-I…”

Preston loses steam here, starts playing with his bowl of macaroni and cheese, eyes downcast and despondent as he quietly admits, “I liked it.”

Stan sits up a little straighter at that. He waits patiently for Preston to continue. Eventually he does, “I have…greatly enjoyed my time amongst your compatriots. Fidds, Shandra, Susan…they’ve all been quite…quite lovely. But I…I imagine it’s time we returned the world to its status quo, hmm?”

He looks up, face sad, “They’ve…all of them…they’ve spoken of nothing but you since your departure. They all miss you, Stanley Pines. Stanford most of all.”

Appetite waning, Stan pushes his plate away, “Ford misses me?”

“Naturally. You know this.”

“I know it,” Stan confirms with a nod and Preston turns waspish, “Then why not return to him! Why stay away for so long?”

“Hey! I _am_. Told you that last night!”

“Yes, but, as I feared, it apparently took _my_ arrival to get you to-!”

Stan smacks one hand loudly on the tabletop to cut him off before jabbing a finger at him, “It didn’t take nothin’! I was about ready to go home on my own! I’d made the decision – both you and Rick’s nagging only helped to seal the deal, ‘s all!”

Preston shoots him a fierce look but Stan’s on a roll now, “And as for my leaving in the first place, I got my reasons!”

“Foolish ones, no doubt.”

Stan feels his temper flare higher and his hands curl into fists before him, “Look, your highness, you don’t know jack about me and my brother and-!”

“I know enough,” Preston cuts in, “I’ve met your father.”

This throws Stan off, “You’ve-?”

“Quite recently,” Preston confirms, “He and your mother came into town to speak with your brother. He and I took them out to dinner and it was quite an…illuminating affair.”

“Illumi-?” Stan’s whole brain is short circuiting. Preston runs a hand through his hair, “It was also...quite explosive.”

Fear and pain are fighting for dominance within Stanley’s mind and he feels breathless, “Ford…faced him alone?”

“I did my best to…” Preston shakes his head to himself, as if disagreeing with his own words, “No, he…he _did_ face him alone.”

Stan swallows thickly and both of his eyes feel pricked with tears as he asks, “Was he…is he…okay?”

Preston just lightly shrugs, “I don’t know.”

This admission has Stan torn between wanting to beat Preston’s face in and wanting to beat his own face in. Ford faced their father alone. Their father came back and spoke with Ford and about a million different things the bastard could have said rush through Stan’s mind. They flood his thoughts and he feels as if he’s drowning when Preston murmurs, “All I know is that he needs you. Ford needs you.”

 He pushes his own plate aside and rests his arms on the table, fingers linking as he looks at Stan and he’s so uncharacteristically sincere, “I understand why you might have needed some time away from him. I do. But you cannot do this any longer. Neither can he. You two are incomplete without one another. You’re halves of a whole. I tried…”

He bites his bottom lip, chews on it thoughtfully, “I tried my very best to fill the void. I wanted to. Isn’t that funny?”

Preston lets out a miserable little noise that is a mockery of true humor, “For all my wealth, my breeding, my intelligence…I wanted to be _you_ , Stanley Pines.”

Stan just looks at him, absorbs his words.

“But it’s like putting a round peg into a square-shaped hole. Your friends, your…Ford. They need _you_. Not me. I am a mere substitute and, I’m afraid, not a very good one. You and I have some similarities – both with fathers that are…overbearing. But the difference is; you, shockingly, came out quite unscathed.”

Stan looks ready to object and seeing it, Preston quickly barrels on, “Don’t mistake me, I’m not trying to imply that my experience was worse or that yours should go unacknowledged – what I am saying, is that you turned out to be a better person, a more capable one.”

His eyes finally leave Stan’s; turn to look out the diner window or maybe at his own reflection in the glass, “You have friends, Stanley. People who love you. Perhaps you do not feel this way, but I do. I’ve heard and felt their love for you. Their admiration. For the life of me, I could not understand it. I’ve even had them try to explain it to me but it…it doesn’t matter. It needs no explanation. It’s…fundamental, absolute. You naturally draw people – they gravitate to you, like you – it’s a charisma that I am unable to capture for myself.”

He keeps looking out, “You have a…lovability. Perhaps it cannot sustain you long term, but it’s there, and it’s helped you time and again. What you have here is a great example. Rick and his band mates – clearly they’ve grown attached to you, come to view you as their equal and friend. It is a rare gift. You should know that. It’s on par with Ford’s genius. That ability to garner other’s affections so easily…”

Preston finally looks back at Stan, “It is not something I possess. Regardless of if I wish otherwise.”

“Preston…” Stan starts, feeling helpless because everything Preston is saying…fuck. It’s some of the nicest shit anyone’s ever said about him. And it’s coming from _Preston_ fucking _Northwest_.

“Anyway, after your father…I knew I had to come here, had to convince you to come home. You have a _home_ , Stanley. You don’t know how rare that is. Your father tried to take that from you. Tried to eject you from it, and while I don’t know exactly what he did or said; I do know you must break free from it. You must rise above him and his words and actions, because you’re better than that, better than him and, more importantly, Ford needs you.”

Stan finally asks the question that’s been nagging him since this all started, “So, you and Ford-?”

“We’re not lovers. We’re friends,” Preston assures him, “Although that itself is on a slippery slope. As I said, I’ve merely been a…stand in for you. But I’ve played my part, my contract’s complete, and it’s time for the proper person to fulfill that role. He loves you, Stanley. As brother, as twin, as other half. He loves you, as do your other friends and you must come back.”

“What about you?” Stan asks, “What’ll-?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Preston assures him and suddenly Stanley's pissed, “You gotta be kiddin’ me! You’re trying to go the martyr route! You?!”

Preston looks more stunned than Stan’s ever seen him. It’s close to the face he made right before Stan hit him that first time in the Press Room all those months ago as Stan growls, “You’re Preston Northwest! You’re a fighter! Just like me! Hell – you beat the shit outta me last night! See?!”

He gestures to his injuries and Preston huffs, “I wear similar battle wounds. Your point?”

“My point is, I’m not having you sit there and tell me I can come on back home and be with my friends and with Ford and you’ll just – just bow out or something. Be all-all gentlemanly about it.”

One of Preston’s eyebrows rise, “You suggest I should not be gentleman?”

“Hell no! I’m saying if I gotta fight, so do you! If you want me to come home and overcome or some shit, you gotta do it to! You gotta,” he groans and rubs his hands over his face, “Fuck! Can’t believe I’m saying this to you, but you gotta…gotta be part of it too. You shouldn’t think so little of my - of  _our_ friends, of yourself – if they like you, then they like _you_ and I ain’t got nothing to do with it.”

Preston looks mollified by Stan’s words and Stan feels surreal as he mutters, “You have to stay, Preston. Keep being friends with Fidds and Susie and Shandra and…Christ, even me.”

“Friends with…?” Preston’s eyes are almost comically wide and Stan lets out a suffering groan, “Don’t make me say it again, man. I’m beggin’ ya.”

“You and I…are friends?”

“Well, we sure as fuck are on our way, ain’t we? We woke up in bed together,” Stan grumbles, “And we both have hard-ons for Ford, so…”

“I,” Preston gasps, sucks in big, bellowing breaths, “I-! I do-do-do…do _not_ have a-a-!”

“Heh, guess that’s true. ‘Ccording to Rick last night, you had one for me,” Stan says and then bursts into even more guffaws as Preston looks like he’s just swallowed a bug. Stan reaches out a hand and roughly pats Preston’s shoulder and Preston relaxes marginally, looking sort of…bashful. It’s a good look on him. Stan can’t believe it. Friends. With Preston Northwest. Holy shit. What’s the world coming to?

Stan finds his appetite’s returned and he grabs his bacon. He dunks it into the sausage gravy and nibbles on it while Preston looks on with horror, “How can you eat it like that?”

“It’s good. Wanna try it?”

Preston cringes, “No, thank you.”

Stan just grins and dips more bacon into the gravy, “Anything ya say, my prince.”

“I…beg your pardon?”

“I said…”

“I know,” Preston whispers and Stan looks up from his food to see that Preston looks…haunted. He’s just about to ask him why when his phone beeps. He looks down to see a missed call from Rick. He sighs and ignores it, deciding to call him back in a few minutes, “You okay?”

Preston nods numbly, “It’s….nothing. Raf-an-an old fri...,” he keeps starting and stopping, obviously unsure of how to phrase it, finally settling on, “an old employee of my father’s used to call me that. That’s all.”

“Call you what?”

“‘My prince,’” He looks so desolate about it that Stan finds his curiosity piqued. He’s just about to ask when an inner voice, one that’s normally too quiet and shouted down by others to be heard, pipes up that that’s it’s probably not a good idea. Instead he asks, “So, you don’t want me to?”

“No, that’s,” Preston swallows thickly, “It’s…okay.”

“Preston, if you don’t want me to, it’s no big…”

“I want you to,” Preston assures him, voice growing in strength, “Please.”

Stan’s bottom lip juts out and he fiddles with his phone to return Rick’s call, “Fine with me. No skin off my nose.”

He puts the phone to his ear and hears Rick pick up, “Hello?”

“Hey Rick, just trying to get a handle on where you are.”

“Oh, cool. Hey-hey man, can you-can you pick meeee- _urp!-_ ee up?”

“Sure, where are you?”

“I’m-I’m not looking for judgement here, Pines. When you pick me up, I don’t-don’t want to hear one word about where I am. No-no questions either.”

Stan’s eyebrows knit together as he frowns, “You okay?”

“I’m-I’m okay. Just…was a craaaaaaaaaazy night, y’know? With the drugs and drinkin’ an-and mean, I don’t have ta tell you, amiright? Consderin’ what-what you and Princess got up to.”

“Me and-?”

“Northwest,” Rick clarifies and Stan shoots Preston a covert look. Preston catches it and looks confused. Stan blushes and lies, “Yeah, right. Totally. Completely remember.”

“Yeah, well, then-then you should know, I don’t-don’t need a lecture when you guys come get me. I assume you’re still with him.”

“Yeah, I…where are you?”

“A farm offa Route 6.”

“A far-?”

“You heard that right, don’t fuckin’ repeat me!” Rick snaps, “And I may or may not be in a cage with-with a variety of wildlife.”

“Wild..?” Stan stalls, “Did you, uh-?”

“What I say about questions, Pines?! Now you and prince charming hurry up and come get me! I’ll-I’ll text ya the address!” And with that Rick unceremoniously hangs up. Stan’s phone dings minutes after with the address and he shakes his head. He flags the waitress over and as he prepares to tell her to split the bill Preston draws her attention with a flash of cash. She takes it, all bright smiles and Stan glowers at him, “I was gonna pay my half.”

“No need. I have it well in hand,” Preston assures him as he gets to his feet. With full bellies they both look a little more grounded and as they leave Stan asks, “So – boxing, Daddy issues, Ford…what else you think we got in common?”

“I do not know, but I dread to think of them,” Preston says but his tone is clearly joking.

Stan smirks, “Bet it’s a lot. Bet we both use the same lube ta jack off or somethin’.”

This sets Preston off on another round of stuttering denials and Stan beams. He hates to admit it – but he could get used to this.


	25. Chapter 25

The Press Room is dark and quiet. Ford is wiping down the tables and putting up chairs and thinking about the future. Since Toby’s departure, he’s been awarded a key to the shop. He can now open and close at will. His position as a supervisor is temporary – which is good, all things considered. Mostly because he’s come to quite a momentous decision – he’s going to go with Bill.

It doesn’t matter if he’ll be skipping out on the rest of this semester. It doesn’t matter if he leaves his friends behind. It doesn’t matter, because nothing matters. It stopped mattering the moment his father opened his eyes to the truth.

_Maybe it’s something you did._

Those were his father’s words. The words that have broken him. Words that are now embedded deep within the very confines of his being, threaded in his heart and soul, sharp stitches of truth. It _was_ something he did. After all, it wasn’t long after he and Stan consummated their relationship that Stan left. Being together that way…touching one another, kissing one another…maybe Stan _thought_ he wanted it, but once he’d had it…

His father’s right.

His father has always been right.

Every thing – every single thing that’s gone wrong – it’s Ford’s fault. It’s always his fault. How many times has his dad tried to teach him this lesson? He even attempted to beat it into him and _still_ Ford never picked up on it, never learned it, but now?

Now he _knows_ it. He thinks of Preston’s hurt expression and he knows it. He thinks of his mother walking out on him and he knows it. He thinks of Stanley leaving, not coming back, barely answering him and he _knows_ it. He knows, he knows it, _he knows it_. He _finally_ gets it now, he _understands_. He’s the cause, the root, the incurable symptom of everything that turns to ash and dust.

For a genius, he sure was slow to pick up on it, but maybe it’s just because he didn’t want to look at himself and accept it. Accept that he’s a cancer - a miserable, selfish piece of trash that’s caused nothing but trouble since his conception. Why did he bring Stanley out here to California? Because he wanted to, because he was too selfish to think Stanley could possibly want otherwise. Why did he kiss Preston? To upset his father, never once thinking, never once seeing…

And _that’s_ why it’s good for him to go with Bill. He doesn’t care if he hurts Bill – he doesn’t even _like_ Bill. And the science will be a good distraction, a good place to shelter himself, because he can’t risk hurting others. He’s been morose, dodging Fidds concerned looks and Shandra’s outright probing questions. He’s curled deeper and deeper into himself. He hasn’t told them yet and he doesn’t plan to tell them until after Operation: BBS.

It’ll be a good note to sign off on, an unannounced going away party. He goes over to the set of large glass windows that display the patio area. All the work is complete. They contracted Manly Dan to finish it up – which certainly led to some interesting days at the coffee shop. Mainly because Shandra damn near devoured him on sight. Ford remembers the day well.

“Who’s that?” Shandra’d asked; voice equal parts husky and curious.

“Oh, that’s, uh, that’s Dan Corduroy,” Ford answered distractedly, focused on the caramel latte he was making at the time, “Fidds and I contacted him to work on the stage. He and Stan work together. Some people call him Manly Dan.”

“Yeah, I’ll just bet they do,” she purred and flipped her hair over one shoulder, “If you’ll excuse me…”

And with that she sauntered over to him and the two have been inseparable ever since. Ford’s not sure if they’re dating per se, but they certainly do seem to be enjoying their time together. Ford’s happy for them. Happy for Fidds and Susan – happy for all the friends he’s had yet to hurt. He hasn’t heard from Preston since the dinner. Not without lack of trying – phone messages, texts –but no, no answer. Not that Ford deserves one.

He doesn’t blame Preston if he doesn’t forgive him – god knows, Ford hasn’t forgiven himself. How could he do that to him? How could he-?

Shaking his head he focuses back on the patio. The wooden stage is small but quaint, draped with dark blue cloth, tall posts wrapped with flowers Preston chose before he disappeared and lights! So many lights are dotted about everywhere. Strings of fairy lights, paper lanterns, citronella torches - he’ll have to put them all out before he leaves, but they make a lovely sight now, the whole outside area glittering with a golden glow.

Before the stage there are rows of glass tables, elaborately designed metal chairs with plush padding and it’s a nice venue – classy yet rustic. Ford’s still not clear on who will be playing – most of the bands and performers who’ve signed up are unknown to him. He doesn’t know if it’ll draw the kind of crowd that will make all this worth it, but Shandra keeps assuring him it’ll be fine – that she has some tricks up her sleeve.

Ford turns away from the window and gets back to work. He finishes getting the inside of the shop in order, reveling in the soft silence. He’s glad he’s alone, glad it’s just him finishing everything up. He puts up his apron and pats down the brown beanie on his head before sticking his hands deep in his jeans. He walks around the closed Press Room, just absorbing it all.

He looks at the coffee machine, sees his reflection in the silver, glossy finish – his face is soft, slightly sad and he pushes up his thick glasses. He’s got on a white shirt – thin, grey long sleeved shirt thrown over top and over that he has a checkered blue and white hoodie. He wonders if he’ll still wear the same layers in Oregon. Probably. The heat never seems to reach him – he’s always cold, always ice. It makes sense. It’s just another defect he has.

He rubs at his eyes and curses under his breath. Christ. He has to stop feeling sorry for himself! Stan’s gone, Preston’s gone – there’s no reason Ford shouldn’t go as well. This is just a part of growing up, right? You move on, go your own way. Isolation is the foundation of existence. We come into the world alone, we die alone. Although, Ford _didn’t_ come into this world alone…

Scowling, he looks away from the machine, looks at the glass case that normally houses cookies, biscottis, and other pastries. He thinks of how Stan was almost always the one to fill up this display. He looks past that and sees the chalkboard advert. It’s inside and written on it in Ford’s simple hand is the special of the day. Nothing funny. Nothing clever. Nothing Stan would have come up with.

Ford draws in a loud breath through his nose and he comes out from behind the counter. He double checks the front door, making sure it’s locked before he starts back towards the door that will lead him out to the patio. He’s more than prepared to dim and douse all the lights out there when he sees someone.

No.

Not just someone.

Ford knows it’s not just someone.

In fact, he felt him before he even saw him. He _felt_ him, but ignored it. He shoved it away as crazy and foolish because he knew it _couldn’t_ be him, it _couldn’t_ be Stanley.  Stanley’s _gone_. He’s been gone for months. But Ford sees this…this someone outside and he feels dizzy. It’s just his back – just this familiar silhouette wearing a beat up old leather jacket and worn jeans and hair…hair that’s grown out so long now, so shaggy and wild, unrestrained by a hair tie, curling just past his shoulders. It’s thick and brown and perfect.

Ford feels like he’s floating, like he’s in a dream as he goes to the door leading to the patio and opens it. The hinges don’t even squeak, but somehow the person hears it and turns and oh god, oh god…it _is_ him. It’s _Stanley_. Stanley stands there, white V-neck beneath the jacket, long sleeved plaid shirt tied around his waist above ripped jeans and his face…it’s just like Ford remembers. True, their faces are damn near mirrors of one another, but somehow Stan’s face has always seemed stronger to him – jawline more defined, cheeks scruffier and his eyes…

His eyes are so rich and warm.

Stan sees him and draws in a loud, ragged breath, “Hey,”

Ford doesn’t answer. He just…he sags against the doorframe, because without it he feels like he’ll fall. There’s a silent river between them, unseen but powerful, and neither seems up to crossing it. Ford can’t take his eyes off Stanley. This is real. This isn’t a fantasy albeit it looks like one. The lights behind Stan illuminate him; the sky above starless but splendidly blue and everything around him…

It’s like a moment ripped from some romantic drama, a scene featured in ‘The Duchess Approves’. A million things are running through Ford’s mind, screaming to get out of his mouth, but no sound comes. Not from him.

Instead, Stan speaks again; voice gruff, “So…have you ever been worried about a calendar?”

Ford blinks.

“I have, I mean…its days are numbered.”

Ford’s mouth flaps silently. Stan can’t seem to stop, “Wanna know why the scarecrow won an award?”

No response.

“Because he was outstanding in his field.”

Halfway through this, Ford starts shaking his head and he turns, starts stalking back inside the shop. He can hear Stan calling out from behind him; words rushed in their hurry to reach him before he gets too far, “Whoa! Hey, no, no, Ford! Ford… _Stanford_! Wait! _Wait!_ Stop! I’m _-_ I’m sorry, I-!”

The moment Ford knows he’s close enough, he stops Stan’s words. He cuts them off abruptly as he whirls around, right fist flying blindly. It makes impact with Stan’s face, knocking him back, teeth loudly clicking together. A sound rips out of Ford at the action, his whole hand stinging, but he doesn’t stop. Instead he throws another punch, this one with his left, and unlike the first it makes better contact. Stan staggers a little under the hits and Ford feels like he’s being torn apart.

Stan looks surprised but also…accepting. And his face – Ford didn’t even notice before that it’s already marred – as if he was in another fight earlier and choked noises escape him as he takes big handfuls of Stan’s shirt and draws him close, capturing his mouth in a desperate, hungry kiss. He tastes blood and sweat and that taste that’s wholly Stanley and he feels like his heart is bursting – fireworks whizzing throughout every vein.

He manhandles Stan until he’s roughly shoved up against a wall. Ford’s kisses him, sucking the air from his lungs and he’s gasping, crying, half out of his mind because it’s Stan, this is Stan, _his_ Stan and he missed him so goddamn _much_. And Stan? For his part he just…lets Ford do what he will. He accepted the punches and now he accepts the kisses, but he has had yet to really react, to do anything, and Ford’s tongue dances over his one more time before he unlocks their mouths.

Ford’s eyes are closed and Stan finally does something, whispering gruffly, “You’re…sending me some pretty mixed signals here, Sixer.”

“Shut up,” Ford sobs, torn between delight and dread, “Just…shut up.”

Stan does. He stands there, silent but comforting, hands rising up to rub at Ford’s shoulders and Ford just…caves in. He curls himself into Stan’s body, buries his face against Stan’s neck and breathes him in. And he absolutely hates himself, because he’s weeping. He’s blubbering like a child and Stan just rocks him, holds him close as Ford starts muttering nonsense. Some of the words make sense – things like ‘missed you’ and ‘goddammit’ but the rest is pretty inaudible.

Once Ford gets ahold of himself enough to speak, he draws back and cups the right side of Stan’s face, thumb gently brushing along his cheek as he murmurs, “I don’t…I don’t even know where to start.”

“I know.”

“I’m upset.”

“Yeah.”

“You…you broke my heart,” he manages, the words coming out far squeakier than he’d like and Stan looks as if Ford’s just eviscerated him. He reaches out, gently tugging Ford close enough so that their foreheads touch, “I didn’t mean ta. Ya gotta believe me, Sixer…I didn’t…”

“It’s not just because you left,” Ford clarifies, “It’s not even because you wouldn’t talk to me.”

“Was it ‘cause I broke my promise?” Stan asks, “Because I _didn’t_ move out. I _did_ come home…even if it took a while for me to…”

“No,” Ford gasps, “No, it’s because…it’s because…”

His voice is breaking, squeaky again, but he manages to get out, “It’s because you…you wouldn’t let me help you…”

Stan moves away, draws back far enough to look into Ford’s face as he confesses, “You’ve always helped me, Stanley. But you…you wouldn’t let me do the same, wouldn’t let me help you. Wouldn’t trust me to…J-Jesus, the things D-Dad…what h-he said… _uhuh_ …what he said to y-y-you…”

Ford’s words dissolve, tears strangling him, and Stan runs a hand through his hair, looking wretched, “Dad told you? He told you what he said to me?”

Ford manages a nod and Stan curses viciously, “Ford – that shit he said about you. You gotta know; _none_ of it’s true! You’re not-!” he curses again, rubs at his face, “Fuck! I never thought he’d _tell_ you! And _I_ didn’t want to tell you – I fuckin’ refused to, ‘cause I couldn’t hurt you that way and now-!”

“It’s not about what he said about _me_!” Ford icily interrupts, his tears now more under control as he snaps, “It’s what he said about _you_!”

Stan looks stunned, “What he-?”

“I don’t give a _shit_ what he said about me!” Ford cries, “What he said…hell, it’s true. I AM a mistake! But you,” Ford’s grip on Stan’s sides tightens, his face a mask of misery, “You’re more than just…just nothing. You’re _everything_. Don’t you see that? Don’t you get it? Don’t I…?”

He bows his head and starts shaking it again, “I never thought you were going to ruin me - you have to know that! I know I’ve said some stupid shit…like you smotherin’ me and-and suff-suffocating me and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I ever said them, but you have to know, you have to believe me…”

“Ford,” Stan starts shushing him, but Ford won’t be stopped and he looks back up at Stan’s, eyes swimming with unshed tears, “But then…you-you did. You…when you were gone, I…”

He can’t even say it, can’t even articulate aloud how - by leaving - Stan _did_ ruin him. How, without Stan, he’s nothing. Ford wants to say it, but he can’t make the words come and he hates how emotional he is. For god’s sake, he didn’t even know he was _capable_ of being this emotional. But he’s just…he’s missed Stan so much and Stan must sense it, because he quietly reassures him, “But I’m back now, Stanford. I’m back.”

Just hearing the words makes Ford whimper, makes him bury his face back into Stan’s neck and Stan brushes his hands up and down his back, “I’m back. I won’t run away. Not again. Not ever again. This was the last time. I’m stronger with you; you make me stronger, I…Christ, Stanford…”

Stan pulls Ford back, intent on looking him in the eyes when he finally says it, but instead he gets caught up in the sight of Ford and just…he kisses him. They kiss again, because it’s just been too long. It’s been too needed. It’s a necessity long denied – like water, like oxygen. And having it again…they both find it too revitalizing to stop. All the color in the world seeps back in – neither noticed before how dull everything looked without the other. But now? Now they’re fused back together and everything is… bright. Glorious.

Ford’s hands go down to Stan’s hips, lock down on them tight as he lifts up and Stan finds himself rising, finds his legs wrapping around Ford’s middle as they kiss one another, the wall behind him providing leverage. The kisses keep shifting – going from energetic to lazy in seconds and suddenly the tears seem to dry out of them, the heaviness rising like a fog as Ford smiles against Stan’s lips.

Stan smiles right back, their lengthy kissing bout finally ending as he laughs softly, “Sometimes I forget how strong you are.”

Ford frowns, confused, when he realizes Stan’s talking about how he picked him up, “Oh, uh…yeah.”

“‘S nice,” Stan mumbles and he realizes he doesn’t know what to do now, what to say, when Ford beats him to it, asking in the meekest of tones, “Will you-? Will you come home with me?”

Stan swallows thickly and nods.

 

+

 

The ride back to the apartment is taken in silence, but they hardly let go of each other’s hand. The physical connection is vital. Not to mention it feels fantastic – their fingers slotted together as they’re always meant to be. They don’t fully break apart until Ford unlocks the apartment door and they go inside. He clicks on the lights and Stan’s eyes widen, “Holy shit.”

He wanders around the space like he’s never seen it before. It’s hasn’t changed much, not really, but, well…

“Is that a flat screen?” he points at the television and Ford nods. Stan blinks rapidly and then continues his perusal – same futon, same table and chairs, but out on the balcony he sees what looks like a small jungle. He opens the sliding glass doors and walks out to find plants _everywhere_. And _living_ plants to boot.  They provide the tiny space with an enchanting scent and he turns to see Ford close behind him. Ford’s lips twitch, “Preston did this.”

Stan snorts, “’Course he did.”

“He’s been here a lot since you left,” Ford admits and Stan smirks, coming back into the apartment sliding the doors shut behind him. He leans against them and folds his arms, “I’ll just bet.”

“He’s changed a lot, Stanley,” Ford starts to argue but Stan waves him off, “Hey, trust me, I know. He’s part of the reason I’m here.”

Ford’s eyes widen in surprise and at the sight, Stan instantly realizes Ford has no idea, “Yeah, he came looking for me.”

“Did he?”

Stan unfolds his arms and shrugs, “It’s not like he was the only one who reached out ta me. I got lots of persistent messages from Fidds. Coupla calls from Susan. And Shandra…shoot, the things I got from her were damn near threatening. Hell, even Rick had a say in my coming back but Preston…”

He stands up straighter, grinning a little; “Fucking rich boy punk comes out to where I am and…”

His words trail off as he tries to think of the best way to explain it, “Mean, he’s responsible for this,” he waves to his wounded face, “And I gave him back in kind. Coulda had Rick heal it up, but I didn’t, ‘cause it’s important. What Preston did…it was all a part of working me through whatever the hell it is I have to work through. And afterwards we talked and…shit, I can _see_ the change in him and I know…know it’s _you_ that caused it.”

Stan comes closer, pats one of Ford’s arms, “And it…it made me miss you all the more and it made me realize,” he looks away, voice dipping as he’s hit with a wave of humility, “I mean, if you can change _him_ that way, maybe…maybe I don’t hafta worry so much about becoming Pops, y’know? You’ll…you’ll keep me in check.”

“Stanley…”

“I mean, if you can pull the stick outta Northwest’s ass…” Stan’s tone is clearly joking, but Ford won’t let him deflect his earlier comment, “You’re nothing like dad.”

“Yeah, that’s what they keep telling me,” he grunts, “But proof’s in the pudding – or, more like, on my face,” he gestures to his cuts again, “I gotta temper. I throw punches.”

“ _I_ threw punches tonight!” Ford interrupts but Stan scoffs, “Yeah, but one could argue yours were deserved. Not to mention getting hit by you is like getting hit by a pool noodle.”

Ford’s face scrunches up in annoyance and Stan can’t help but grin again. Still, the expression slowly fades as he continues, “Point being – I worry about it. Worry about how angry I get and how I handle it and I just…I don’t want to end up like him.”

“You won’t,” Ford promises and he reaches out, taking one of Stan’s hands in his again. Stan feels another smile coming on when he looks up to see a frame on the wall near the front door. The sight makes the smile a reality as he draws away from Ford, walking over to it, “Oh my god – you did it!”

The frame surrounds a dark, ragged hole in the wall. The one Stan put there and seeing it he laughs, “You _actually_ framed where I put my fist through the wall!”

“You said you wanted to,” Ford admits quietly and while he has a smile on his face, this one is more somber. He framed the hole not long after Stan left; when he thought – foolishly – that Stan would only be gone for a few days. The memory of Stan’s absence still stings, even with his brother back, “You also said you weren’t moving out.”

Stan, who’d knelt to poke at the hole, draws back to stand upright, “I didn’t.”

“Three months, Stanley. You were gone for _three_ months,” Ford returns bitterly and Stan scratches at the back of his head, “Yeah, well…”

“If the others hadn’t pushed you, if Preston hadn’t come…would you have even come back?” the question is asked softly but holds heavy weight behind it. Stan lets out a loud breath, “I don’t know.”

Ford chews on his bottom and top lip, nodding to himself, hurt coursing through him and Stan can’t stand the look on his face, “Look, Sixer – it’s not that I didn’t miss you or didn’t want to be with you. It’s not even that I was worried about the shit Pops said or the idea of becoming him. It’s…a lotta little things prompted my leaving.”

He doesn’t want to say the words - he really, really doesn’t, but Ford forces them out, “Tell me.”

Stan avoids his eyes, feeling uncomfortable as he answers, “Look…I want you to know, I’m telling you this because I get it – we should communicate more. Mean, it’s…difficult. And I feel all sorts of dumb doin’ it, because I don’t like big emotional heart to hearts, but I know it’s what we need to do. It’s the only way this is going to work, if we want it to work, and I want it to work and I…”

He stops, realizes he’s rambling and shakes his head, knowing he needs to get to the point. But first, “Okay, just…before I get into this, I need to know. Do you-do you want to-?”

Stan doesn’t finish, instead looking at him, willing Ford to know what he’s asking without actually making him ask it. But Ford looks lost so finally he lets out a weary groan, “Christ! This is so fucking stupid! Do you want to be with me?”

“Do I-?”

“A couple, genius. Do you want to be a couple? And I don’t mean a couple like a couple of brothers or friends or a couple of guys just...a _couple_. All hearts and roses and romance. Dates and kisses, boyfriend and boyfriend-!” He doesn’t get to say more, because Ford lunges forward and kisses him. The kiss effectively halts his explanations. When Ford finally draws back, he looks sort of wobbly on his feet as he shyly whispers, “Yes. I want that.”

Stan barely restrains himself from whooping in victory. Instead a ridiculously goofy smile takes his face, “Wow! Alright! Okay, well! Cool! Cool…high six?”

He raises his hand and Ford laughs even as he does as requested. Once completed, Ford asks, “Stanley?”

“Hmm?”

“Reasons you left?”

“Oh…yeeeeah,” Stan drags out, frowning, because he really doesn’t want to talk about that. He would much rather bask in the glow of their working out the most important bit. A couple. They’re a goddamn _couple_ now. Stan just wants to collect Ford up in his arms and swing him around the apartment, crush him close. Instead he eyes the bedroom door, “Um…I’ll tell ya, but can we go in there?”

Ford follows his eye line and, seeing the door, he nods. They go into the bedroom and Stan looks around, another smile taking his face. This room is _exactly_ like he remembers it. Right down to how messy it is. He flops down on their bed, eyes on the ceiling and he feels like he’s on cloud nine. He didn’t realize until this moment how much he’s missed this – missed everything.

It’s not just Ford, not just his friends – it’s _this_. His home. His place and his things. It’s like he somehow slipped out of his life and now? Now he’s slotted right back into it and he feels oh so much better. Whole. Complete. He closes his eyes and he just wants to sleep, wants to continue to be wrapped up in this comfort when Ford clears his throat.

He opens his eyes and sees his twin leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Stan knows he’s waiting. Waiting for Stan’s explanation. Grimacing, Stan closes his eyes. Maybe if his eyes are closed it’ll be easier to explain, less embarrassing, “Right, right…why I left. Y’know – past the Pops thing…um, okay, well, it’s…it’s sorta dumb. Or, I mean…it’s not dumb, exactly, it’s just-!”

“Spit it out, Stan,” Ford’s voice is authoritative and it makes Stan shiver, “Fine! Look, you…you got a lot going for you. Your future’s not really in question. You’re so damned smart – you can do anything. Get any job you want, go anywhere, and me? I’m…not the sharpest tool in the shed. I mean, I’m no idiot, but it’s not like people are lining up down the block to hire me and I don’t think about it a lot, but sometimes…sometimes I think about my future and I…I’m worried.”

Stan’s never said any of this aloud before. Hell, he’s barely even allowed himself to _think_ about it. But now that it’s leaving him, he finds it’s like a dam bursting, all of it just flooding out, “I don’t have much of a plan. I don’t know what the hell I want to do with myself, but my music…it’s…it’s always kind of been there. And I used to think it wasn’t something I could make a livin’ on, but then I met Rick and I’d never...I’d never met another artist. Someone else who plays music, much less someone who’s successful at it, so I started thinking about how maybe it _is_ an opportunity.”

“And then Pops came,” Stan grumbles, eyes still closed, his father’s face flashing behind his eyelids, “He came and he said a bunch of nasty shit like always and it propelled me to think about you and…fuck, Stanford…you’re a big part of me. The biggest part, the _best_ part, but…honestly, I needed…I needed to know that there’s something else.”

He closes his eyes harder. So hard the image of his father disappears. So hard his eyes hurt, “I needed to know that there can be something else; something just for me. That I can _do_ something, that I can _be_ something. Be _somebody_. That I can be fine on my own.”

Stan opens his eyes, looks at the ceiling and feels like he’s floating, like he’s out of his own body, mouth moving independent of him, “And I can. I know that now. I did good with the band, with Rick. I did good on my own. But I don’t…I mean, if I have a choice, I don’t _want_ to do it on my own. I can, but I don’t want to. I want to do it with you. I want to be with you and that’s why I asked if you wanted to really make a go of this couple thing, because…”

The bed shifts and Stan turns his head to see Ford sitting next to him. Ford’s face is tender, inviting, and Stan gets up on one elbow. He looks up at Ford through his eyelashes, whispering the words he’s waited years to say, “ …I love you, Ford. I love you.”

Ford leans down and their lips meet, drawn together like magnets. Stan reaches out, takes Ford into his embrace and rolls his brother on top of him. The air fills with the sound of their lips meeting, kisses soft and gentle, but with an almost strange intensity.  It’s lazy yet focused and when they finally stop, Ford just rolls to one side and they lay there, facing one another. Neither speaks, simply looking at the other, memorizing each other’s features, hands rising to slowly brush at one another.

It doesn’t feel like words are needed, the silence relaxed. Ford’s the first to break it, “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

“And I’m glad you told me why you left. And I understand, I do, but,” Ford reaches out, brushing fingers down the front of Stan’s chest, “I wish you hadn’t been gone for so long.”

“It was only three months, Ford,” Stan argues, even if he actually agrees with him.

“Might as well have been three _years_.”

“What if it’d been more? What if it’d been _thirty_?”

Ford groans, face rolling into the mattress, coming out muffled, “God, I would have _died_.”

“Probably a universe where that happened,” Stan offers and Ford shakes his head, “Well, I’m sure as hell glad it isn’t this one. Three months was long enough. I don’t know how any version of me could survive thirty years without you.”

“Maybe that version of you is a jackass?” Stan offers and Ford groans, batting out at him again but Stan easily deflects it, catching one weak fist to shake his entire arm, “Don’t think I’ll ever figure out how these noodles can pick me up, but can’t throw a punch worth shit.”

“Well, I was raised to take hits, not throw them,” Ford says this without thinking. His tone is almost playful but as soon as he speaks, he knows he shouldn’t have said it. Stan’s happiness fades and Ford pulls his hand away from Stan’s now limp grip, “Look, I’m sorry….”

“Don’t be sorry for that,” Stan growls and he edges forward, kissing Ford again, this time with a little more force. When he draws back there’s a fire in his eyes and he sits up. He taps a hand at Ford’s hip, “Come on; sit up.”

Confused, Ford does as directed. Stan picks up Ford’s hands and faces them out, “Gonna show you how to throw a proper punch.”

“Stanley, I took boxing lessons with you.”

“Not for long.”

Ford shrugs, “Dad said it was okay for me to drop out.”

“Yeah, now I know why,” Stan grouses and he starts explaining to Ford how he should hit. He puts a few well-placed punches into each of Ford’s hands then has him return the action. Ford seems reluctant at first, but he slowly gets into the grove, throwing better and better blows into Stan’s waiting hands.  Once he’s satisfied, Stan lowers his hands, shaking them a little, “Not bad, not bad. Need a little more work, but you pick up pretty fast.”

“I have a good teacher,” Ford remarks brightly, “He’s pretty cute too.”

“Oh yeah?” Stan chuckles and Ford nods, leaning in to capture another kiss. Neither of them can seem to stop kissing. They can’t stop passing back and forth little tokens of affection, the need for the actions too strong. Ford eyes Stan, “If you’re going to teach me about punching, what should I teach you in return? Maybe some physics?”

“Fuck, _no_ ,” Stan begs but Ford ignores him, instead spouting off various theories and Stan falls back on the bed, pretending to have fallen asleep - letting out loud, fake snoring sounds. Ford grabs a pillow, smacking him with it. Stan happily grabs a pillow of his own and a brief pillow fight breaks out. It ends with Stan over top of Ford, kissing the very air out of his lungs. 

When the kissing abates, Ford cuddles into Stan and Stan runs a gentle hand up and down Ford’s side, finally saying something that’s been on his mind for a while, “So, I talked a bit about my leaving and the crap with Pops but…mean; this shouldn’t be one sided, right?”

Ford moves up in his grip, just enough to meet Stan’s eyes, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we kinda glance over it again and again but we need to stop doing that.”

“Glance over-?”

“Pops abusing you,” Stan blurts, completely matter of fact, and Ford colors, “I-I don’t know if I’d say he-?”

“He _did_ , Sixer. He hit you. Mean, he was all kinds of shit to me, but to you…”

“Hey! The things he said to you were-were much worse! He damn near convinced you that you’re worthless when you’re-!”

“Okay, but we’re not talking about that right now,” Stan cuts in, “We’re talking about _you_. The things he did to _you_. He hit you, Sixer. Scarred your back, burned you – fuck knows what else. And I’m not saying you have to tell me about it right now or that you even have to tell _me_ at all, but I am saying you should…you should talk to _somebody_.”

Ford draws away, sitting up again, face dark, “You’re saying I should see a psychiatrist.”

Stan winces as he sits up, leans his back against the wall the mattress is butted up next to, “Look, Ford…”

“I don’t _want_ to see a psychiatrist. I don’t _need_ to see a psychiatrist.”

“Ford…”

“No, Stanley. It’s-it’s,” Ford shakes his head and he looks so morose that Stan feels a momentary stab of guilt for pushing him. But as much as he hates this, Stan knows it something that _has_ to be pushed. Ford’s kept all this bottled up for _years_. It needs to be aired out and right when he’s about to say this, Ford admits in a threadbare sigh, “It’s…embarrassing.”

“Why?”

The question is asked and Ford’s not sure how to answer it. He doesn’t want to say it makes him feel weak and stupid. He doesn’t want to say that he doesn’t want to confide in some faceless stranger. He doesn’t want to say anything really. He wants Stan to drop the subject, but his brother looks pretty determined. Finally he mumbles, “Can I just…can I think about it? Please?”

Stan sucks in a heavy breath before finally nodding, “Okay,” Ford visibly relaxes but Stan adds, “Okay, but don’t think I’m letting this drop. I ain’t going anywhere, Stanford. I’m here now. For the long haul. So I’m going to give you a day or two max and then I’m going to ask again. I’m going to keep asking until you either go see somebody or you talk to me or do whatever you have to do, ‘cause I’m not having you keep all that poison inside anymore.”

“What about you?” Ford returns, “Are _you_ going to see somebody?”

“Would that prompt you to go?” Stan asks seriously, “’Cause if it will, sure, yeah – I’ll fucking go.”

Ford wasn’t expecting him to say this and he feels his face heat, “Oh. Um.”

He knows the words are unintelligent, but he can’t seem to offer up much else. Stan reaches out and captures his face in his hands, “Hey, look…I’m not doing this to try and hurt you. Or ta punish you or something. I’m doing it because it’ll be good for you. For us.”

Something flickers in Ford’s eyes as he reaches up to cover Stan’s hands with his own, “You’re…different.”

The comment causes an odd tug in Stan’s center and he belatedly realizes its worry, “Oh?”

Ford nods and Stan shifts a little, pulling his hands back as nerves take him, “Good different or bad different?”

It takes far longer for Ford to answer than Stan would like, but when he does, he feels relief flood him the moment ‘good’ leaves his brother’s lips. Ford explains, “It’s little things and big things, but you’ve changed and it’s…I don’t know…it’s _different_. But it’s not terrible.”

“Okay, um, what’s a little thing?”

“Well, for one thing – you don’t smell anymore,” Ford tosses out with a smirk, “At least, not like smoke. You smell…cleaner.”

“Guess I’ll take that as a compliment,” Stan gripes, “If you must know, I quit smoking.”

Ford looks delighted, “You did?”

Stan nods, “Mix of patches and cold turkey, but I kicked the habit.”

“Good for you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan brushes off, even though he’s secretly pleased with himself for this accomplishment as well, “What’s a big thing?”

“I…it’s hard to explain,” Ford scratches at his face thoughtfully, “It’s just…the way you talk to me. The way you’re handling our…new relationship. It’s…very mature.”

 Stan proudly puffs up at this, “Makes sense, I mean; I learned on the road that I can actually be pretty fucking responsible.”

Ford’s eyebrows rise skeptically, “You?”

This gets a laugh, “Yeah, well – you should try spending time with Sanchez. Someone’s gotta take the reins. Heck, his _daughter_ is more responsible than him.”

“Daughter?”

“Beth,” Stan beams, “Ridiculously cute kid. All blonde pigtails and sticky little fingers. Told her about you – she calls you ‘Ferd’.”

Ford looks charmed at the idea and Stan realizes that since he’s trying to be more communicative and honest, he should probably go full throttle, “You should – ah…you should know I, um, I actually kissed Rick. Like, a lot.”

This gets Ford’s full attention and Stan quickly elaborates, “It was just kissing, just once – nothing more. And it didn’t mean a damned thing. I did it because I was all frustrated and angry at myself. At everybody, the whole world. I didn’t know what the fuck else to do and I had to damn near psych myself up to do it. I think I actually hurt Rick’s feelings, which seems near impossible once you get to know him but anyway, I just…I want you to know about it, ‘cause I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.” 

“I…see,” Ford works this through his mind and finds himself offering his own admission, “Well, I kissed Preston.”

Stan looks just about as stunned as Ford did when Stan told him about kissing Rick, “I did it to upset our father and I _know_ I hurt Preston’s feelings. I haven’t spoken to him since and I feel dreadful about it.”

“Huh,” Stan mummers, “So we’re…we’re kind of assholes, huh?”

Ford lets out a sour huff, “Yeah.”

“Think it’s just us naturally or how we are when we’re apart?”

“Well, I definitely think I’m much better with you, than without,” Ford whispers and he edges back close to Stan. They both end up lying fully on the bed again, facing one another as Stan whispers, “If it makes you feel any better…I spent one helluva crazy night with Preston.”

“Yeah?”

“When he came to visit, after we fought – he admitted it was all some kinda ploy to get me to come back,” Stan says this and Ford’s eyes widen, “Wait…he conned you?”

“Why does everybody keep saying that?! No, Preston Northwest did _not_ con me.”

Ford’s not convinced, “He tricked you?”

“No, he – _agh_!” Stan buries his face in the mattress and Ford is _giggling_ , “Oh my god, of all people…”

“Look, he got _lucky_ , alright?” Stan snaps, annoyed at the idea of Preston outwitting him, “Anyway – afterwards we all got a couple of drinks, got a little loaded – it was a good time and I think he’s not…y’know, completely crushed by what happened between you two.”

“Oh?” Ford asks hopefully and Stan nods, “Not saying that you still shouldn’t apologize…”

“I will, I will,” he promises, “How about you? Did you apologize to Rick?”

“We made up in our own way,” Stan admits, shifting about where he lays, hands reaching out to shove a pillow beneath his head before he continues, “Ripped off a couple suckers at a poker game. Drank a lot. Rick loves to drink, man. Loves drugs too, he’s…he’s a handful.”

“I can imagine.”

“And the wild night with him and Preston,” Stan rubs at his face, “Can’t really remember a lot of it, but I’m pretty sure we sang karaoke.”

“Really?” Ford questions with genuine interest and Stan grins, “Seem to recall singing with Preston…us kind of stumbling about on a stage, big crowd before us – all of them hollering and shouting – sounding just as fucked up as we were but his voice,” he squints, “pretty sure it was impressive. Like, I think he said something about being in choir before his dad yanked him out of it because he thought it was ‘too unsophisticated’.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Yeah, nice to know we’re not the only ones with a jackass for a dad,” Stan mutters and Ford opens his mouth as if to argue the point but stops himself. Stan considers that a win, “Then I think we went drinking…gambling. I seem to remember party lights and fire.”

“Fire?!” Ford gasps with concern but if anything Stan just looks happier, “Hmm…yeah, fire and heavy bass music like we were in a club? Confetti and foam, strobe lights…and these weird lookin’ people. Maybe costumes? Know some of ‘em were in wacky get ups – almost like aliens or something. Anyway we talked…Preston and me…can’t quite remember what about. Probably you.”

Ford feels his lips twitch with amusement, “Sounds like you had fun.”

A moan rises up out of Stan and he puts on the air of someone who is being dramatically tortured, “Fuck, I _know_. Somehow I got all friendly with _Preston Northwest_.”

“Hey, I did it first,” Ford argues and he just – he can’t seem to stop smiling. God, he’s missed this. Missed Stan’s overreacting. Missed Stan’s silliness. Missed _Stan_. He hasn’t felt this great in ages as he goes on, “It’s not so bad. Yes, he can be a little…arrogant. And stiff. But underneath it all, he’s actually a pretty decent guy.”

“Well, he’s a _rich_ guy. Maybe he’ll buy us cars for Christmas.”

“Stanley…” Ford chastises when Stan suddenly looks crafty, “Or maybe he won’t have to. Like I said, night was pretty nuts. Big blur. Think maybe…yeeeah…I think Preston and me got married.”

The remark is clearly a joke and Ford snickers, shoving him, “Shut up.”

“No! Swear to god. We’re married now, so I’m set for life! I’m talking super rich! I can buy us our own cars! And now I’mma Northwest to boot!  I can get us into yacht clubs and we can go to yacht proms! But don’t be jealous, because you can marry him too and then marry me. We can have a Big Love kinda set up! Be brother-husbands!”

Ford just rolls his eyes but Stan’s in the zone now, “It’s like, y’know how we’re the Mystery Trio with Fidds? Well, with Preston we can be the Mystery Husbands! Or how about the Mystery Marrieds?”

“That sounds like a stupid name for a really terrible reality show. Or a bad romance novel.”

“Oh, oh! Or maybe he can take _our_ last name! What do you think? Preston Pines? His initials’ll be P.P. Get it? Pee pee?”

“Christ – I’m in love with a five year old,” Ford grouses fondly when Stan freezes. Ford frowns, thinking somehow he’s said something wrong when Stan gasps, “What did you say?”

Confusion fills Ford and he repeats himself, “I said I’m in love with-”

“You love me?” Stan asks this as if he’s shocked to the core and Ford, not understanding why, says as much, “Stanley, you know that.”

“No,” Stan’s voice is hushed, “I don’t. That’s…you’ve never said it before.”

“Sure I have!”

“No, you haven’t,” Stan contends, “C’mon Sixer, think about it. That’s…that’s the first time you’ve ever said it. Least to me.”

Ford’s eyes dart about as he searches his memory and he realizes…Stan’s right. He’s never said it before. At least not like this. He’s never told him he’s in love with him and Ford closes his eyes as he groans, “Fuck. Please, _please_ don’t tell me I just told you I’m in love with you for the first time right after you made a horrendous pee pee joke.”

“You did,” Stan giggles and it’s _giggles_ because the sound comes out half hysteric. He hasn’t moved an inch, but he feels like he’s floating high off the ground as he pushes, “Did you mean it?”

Ford opens his eyes, “Did I-?”

“Do you love me?” his voice is breathless with wonder and a near delirious need, “Are you in-?”

“Yes,” Ford returns firmly, reaching out to brush his fingers along Stan’s face, to pepper kisses all over it, “Yes, of course I’m in love with you. I love you, I love you, I love-!”

His words end as Stan takes Ford’s lips with his, as they kiss. This kiss is a little different from the previous ones. It has a keen sense of power behind it and Stan sort of curves his body up into Ford’s, rolls his brother over top of him so Ford’s pressing him down deep into the mattress and they’re both semi-hard, rocking against one another.

It’s not a rushed, frantic thing – there’s no true need. Neither is interested in sex, both just enjoying the feel of one another – the light, playful sensuality. They’re relearning one another. How each likes to be kissed, touched – and their wallowing in the pure pleasure of the other’s attentions.  It’s an unhurried display and both are drowning in it, lost in the well of each other.

The air is filled with the wet, slick sounds of their lips locking and unlocking, of their tongues dipping into moist caverns to explore, to play against one another. There’s the occasional moan, a whimper, but it never ratchets up to that level that hints there’s something more erotic to come. It’s just a simple passion and when Ford finally does pull away, the tips of Stan’s ears and the apples of his cheeks are a soft pink as he hums, “Mmm, nice.”

“Yeah,” Ford exhales in agreement and he shifts just enough to roll their hips together one more time, the feel of their burgeoning erections rubbing against one another sinfully intoxicating. Stan looks at Ford and can’t help himself, “Can ya say it again?”

“What? That I love you?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you.”

He closes his eyes, relishes in the sound of the words leaving his brother’s mouth and then he exhales,  “We really should never _ever_ leave this room.”

“It _is_ nice,” Ford agrees and Stan nods, “We’re always safe here. Happy here. This is probably, without a doubt, the best spot in the world. Especially now that it’s a landmark.”

“Landmark?”

“This is the first place you told me you love me,” Stan confirms and Ford rolls his eyes again, “God, who knew you were such a romantic?”

Stan doesn’t comment on that, instead saying on an inhale,“‘S funny…this should probably be a lot harder, huh?”

Ford blinks, “What do you mean?”

“You and me…I came back and we fell right back into this. It’s like I was never gone.”

“You _were_ gone,” Ford counters, “And we _still_ have a lot more to talk about.”

“Hmm, I know. But you’d think it’d be…I dunno. More dramatic.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know. Like, should we fight more? Throw things? Or maybe you go to the bus station or the airport and I gotta make a mad dash to stop you. Do a big ol’ lengthy speech about our defying the odds and making love last and then some pop music wells in the background and we’ve got that big happily ever after vibe going.”

Ford rolls off of Stan once more, chuckling as he puts his hands beneath his head, “This is real life, Stanley. Not a rom com or a fairy tale.”

Stan shrugs, “True. Might be I’ve seen too many of those lately – Beth loves ‘em, so I’ve seen more than my fair share.”

For some reason the words propel Ford into disclosing, “Though, to be perfectly frank, I had planned on departing with Bill.”

Just the name makes Stan stiffen, “Bill? Who’s Bill?”

“Bill Cipher.”

“You gotta be fuckin’ _joking_ ,” Stan says the words like he has a bad taste in his mouth but Ford’s unmoved, “ He and I have mended fences…”

“Mended fences?! Sixer, his friend tried to sexually assault you after he drugged you!”

“Yes, but see we still go to the same school and share a class and our teacher paired us, so we’ve been working together on a project and…”

“What? So that wipes out what he did?! Are you completely mental!?”

Ford pushes up his glasses to rub at his eyes, not appreciating Stan’s rising ire as he avoids the glare Stan’s shooting his way, “You’re really set on the idea of this being more dramatic, aren’t you?”

“I’m not trying to make this dramatic, Stanford!” Stan’s tone rises, anger coursing through him, “You can’t go with him! I don’t want you anywhere _near_ him! Preston’s one thing, okay? I’ll give you that. He turned out to be decent - whoopty friggin’ doo – but that don’t mean _everybody’s_ a secret saint! Cipher’s bad news and I won’t-!”

He gets out a loud scoff and it’s clear Ford’s annoyed as he pushes down his glasses and finally looks at him, dark eyes hard, “You won’t have to _say_ or _do_ anything! This is about _me_ , Stanley! And I’ve already made up my mind to stay!”

This announcement takes some of the heat out of Stan but now Ford’s back is up, “Sorry to deny you your much beloved chasing me to the airport scene, but I can make my own choices and decisions! I was on the fence with the Cipher idea to begin with! I was, however, more propelled to consider it when you take in account that you were gone, Preston and I have not spoken, and Fidds is seconds from telling me he’s moving out!”

Stan lets out a big whoosh of air, like he’s been gut punched, “Fidds is moving out?”

“He thinks I don’t know,” Ford offers dryly, “But it doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together. He doesn’t want to leave – least not while you and I are unresolved, but he loves Susan. It’s put him in a bad position. I know that’s why he hasn’t approached me about the matter yet. But, had you stayed gone, I believe eventually he would have and I can’t afford this place alone. And without you, without Fidds, without Preston…well, there was no reason for me to stay here.”

Stan goes to open his mouth but Ford beats him to it, “But now you’ve returned. And Preston…perhaps I can make up with him and this can be okay. Keep in mind, Cipher’s proposal _was_ promising. The science, the adventure…pushing the boundaries of our world and what we know, dipping into the supernatural…it’s compelling. Had circumstances been different, perhaps I would have gone with him, but they’re not.”

“So…only my coming back kept you here?”

“Yes and no,” Ford shifts about on the mattress, “I’m fully aware Bill is full of ulterior motives. I don’t trust him, I don’t like him. Those are the facts that kept me from agreeing right away. But a day or so ago, I had come to the conclusion that I should go with him. That there was nothing for me here and, what’s more, that I…well, perhaps I deserved whatever he had in mind for me.”

“Ford…” Stan starts but Ford’s closes his eyes again, feeling a touch of wet heat behind his eyelids, “I’ve hurt you. I’ve hurt Preston. And our father…”

Ford completely expects Stan to immediately interrupt and denounce their sire as he is wont to do. But this time he doesn’t, he stays silent and Ford finds he can continue, “…he’s charismatic. In a way. He gets you…he gets you to believe the things he says. You know this better than anyone. And for me – he said things and also followed them with actions. He imprinted them into me. But the worst…the worst is our mother.”

“Mom?”

“She’s with child.”

“What’re you saying? When she was here she brought a kid with her or-?” Stan asks, confused, and Ford snorts, opening his eyes even as one tear manages to escape, “No, silly. She’s pregnant.”

“Christ, why didn’t you just say that then!? ‘With child’? Who are you? Our Great Grandmother?”

The question sets Ford off into laughing and Stan joins him. They both laugh for a minute before Stan sighs, “So Mom’s knocked up? Fuck. Can’t believe she slept with that bastard again. Much less all these years later.”

“Stanley, I’m sure our parents have been having sexual intercourse since…”

“AGH! Gross! Ew, ew, _ew_ – _stop_!” Stan melodramatically whines, “Don’t _ever_ use the word ‘sex’ or ‘intercourse’ around Ma and Pops _ever_ again! Bad enough you said Ma’s ‘with child’. That’s an image I won’t lose anytime soon!”

Ford hums, “To be fair, I’m quite sure our parents would view _our_ relationship with disgust as well. Most people would. Luckily, you and I have somehow managed to surround ourselves with people who are far more accepting.”

“Well, duh. Why would we surround ourselves with dickheads? Mean, _some_ of them are dickheads – talking Rick and Preston respectively – but at least they’re _open-minded_ dickheads.”

This makes Ford smirk and Stan looks at him with an open expression, “So…Ma?”

Feeling his throat thicken, Ford curls himself into Stan’s embraces, voice muffled as it rises up from Stan’s chest, “She knows. She knows about what Dad did. Maybe she always did…but she just…at the restaurant when I saw her last, when I kissed Preston, and father and I argued, she…she walked away.”

“No…”

Ford just nods and Stan frowns, “Maybe…maybe she just didn’t know what to do?”

When he gets no response, he feels the need to explain, “Ma’s a good woman. She’s been good to us. Maybe she wasn’t the best parent in the world, but I think she loves us. And Pops…mean, her and Pops’s relationship is a fucking mixed bag of _weird_. Maybe she knew – maybe she didn’t. But either way, when it was in her face, what was she supposed to do? To say? Might be she walked away because she just…didn’t know. Maybe she _still_ doesn’t know. She hasn’t made up her mind yet where to go, what to do, how to think. It…it can’t be easy. Most things in life aren’t, right? After all, you and me are in love with one another and we’re _brothers_. Twins no less. Not easy. Super messy and fucked up, but there it is.”

“There it is,” Ford agrees and he sneaks in another kiss, “You really _are_ different. Showing off your smarts and everything.”

“You’re the smart one, Poindexter.”

“No,” Ford offers, “ _You’re_ the smart one, Stanley. You get things I never will. Understand people so much better. I may be book smart but you…you’re leagues smarter in so many ways.”

Stan wants to argue but decides to just take the compliment instead. Why not? It’s a nice compliment. But thinking of Ford’s remark about how he’s changed he carefully eases his brother away, rising back up, “Speakin’ of change, check this out.”

Stan sheds his leather jacket and grabs the bottom hem of his white shirt. He rolls it up just enough so it rests around his neck like a thick scarf and he turns to display his back, “Check it out!”

Ford sees the blue tattoo on Stan’s back shoulder and grins as he too rises, “You got the tattoo!”

“Yup,” Stan replies brightly as Ford reaches out and traces it with his fingertips, “It feels…sort of raised. Wait – is this a tattoo or a burn scar?”

The question only gets a shrug as a response and Ford thinks to ask more on that when he notices something, “Wait a minute…this…this looks familiar.”

“It should. You drew it,” Stan confides and Ford’s eyes widen, “Yes. Yes! I remember now! I drew this in the hospital. Not long after I woke up after the whole frat party incident. I was in the room alone and kind of hazy, bored, so I did some weird doodles. This was one of them.”

The realization makes Ford wince, “Oh god, Stan…this…I don’t think this _means_ anything. It’s just some post-drugged up scribble I did. And now it’s on you _forever_.”

Stan lowers his shirt back down and turns to look at Ford with a big smile, “Good.”

“Good? How can you think this is good?”

“Don’tcha see, Sixer? It’s _unique_. Ain’t nobody else gonna have a mark like this. That makes it special. Makes it solely mine and you did it. And you did it right after you woke up and…I mean; so many things coulda happened that night. I could have lost you. But I didn’t and this is the first thing you did after you woke up, came back to me, and it’s…it’s perfect. Couldn’t be _more_ perfect. I’m glad I have this. Glad I have you.”

Ford is touched but a little apprehensive, “While I appreciate the sentiment and return it, I still feel some responsibility.”

“Hey, it’s not like you chose to burn this thing into me. It was my choice. And I stick behind it.”

“I suppose it could have been worse. You could have gotten a heart wrapped in barb wire or something.”

“Nah, that’s not something you would’ve drawn. Now, a guy getting spit roasted on the other hand…”  Stan can’t even say more, Ford turns red so quickly it’s hilarious. He’s lost in laughter. His brother is sputtering and gasping like he’s just been dunked in deep water and Stan wipes at his eyes, “ _Aha ha ha_ – the look on your face! Oh my god!”

“I’ve-I’ve never-!”

“Are you really gonna sit there and tell me you’ve _never_ drawn that kinda scenario?” Stan teases and Ford crosses his arms, looking adorably put out. Stan kisses the top of his head and tugs him close, “It’s alright, Ford. Not judging. Just sayin’ – I could have gotten a far more provocative piece of your artwork on me.”

All he gets for this is some grumpy noises and Stan chews on his bottom lip, heart full as he nuzzles into Ford’s beanie, “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“What? Words already lose their appeal?”

“No…just…embarrassed.”

“Shouldn’t be. The spit roastin’ pic was _hot_. And the one with the tentacles…” his tone is clearly playful and Ford nudges him, “Stop.”

“Nope. Not ever,” Stan promises and he reaches out to tilt Ford’s face towards his, eyes glowing, “Not ever gonna stop, Stanford. Not gonna stop being with you, not gonna stop lovin’ you. Not _ever_ gonna stop. ”

Ford looks at Stan and feels his pulse rise like its being carried on a warm wind, his heart skipping a beat as he whispers, “Good.”

 


	26. Chapter 26

“Well, as I live an’ breathe,” Fidds says the words softly but it doesn’t matter, Stan still wakes up. He’s a little unclear about where he is at first, having traveled so much, but then he looks down to see Ford next to him and his heart melts. Ford is still conked out, snoring lightly and Stan kisses his forehead before slowly rolling up to stand. He directs his attention to Fidds, who is leaning his lanky body against their bedroom doorframe, arms crossed. He jerks his head to one side and Stan follows him.

They leave the room, Stan quietly shutting the door behind him. They only move slightly away from it, so that Stan can rest his back against the wall near the door. Fidds moves to half sit on the dining room table and they both coolly assess one another before Stan finally cracks, “Hey, buddy.”

“Stanley,” Fidds returns genially, but Stan can sense it - that reproachful attitude that feels far more paternal than anything his father’s ever attempted. Stan clears his throat, “So, ah…’s been a while.”

“It has,” the tone’s still there and Stan winces, “Look, Fiddleford, I’m – I’m sorry I didn’t…”

“I don’t need no apologies, Stanley,” Fidds offers, “Not from you.”

Stan looks at him with genuine surprise while Fidds continues, “You and Ford’dve been apologizing yer whole lives and you ain’t had no need to do so. ‘Specially not with me. I’m your friend,” he shrugs, “That said…hearin’ from you a bit more would’ve been nice. Believe it or not, I tend ta worry.”

For some reason, this makes Stan feel guiltier. He’s sure that’s not what Fidds was going for, but he toes at the ground, eyes downcast, “I know. I meant to call and write more but it was…difficult.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Nah, just…didn’t know what to say,” Stan admits, scratching at one cheek, “Mean; I’m sure Shandra told you a bit about Pops coming by.”

“She did. Didn’t clarify much though. Nobody knows what was said ‘tween you two. And Ford wasn’t too illuminatin’ himself, on accounta him getting all morose whenever ya tried ta talk to him about it.”

Stan huffs, “Yeah, that’s what I hear. Funny…from some of the things he’s said in the past I thought…well, thought maybe he’d be glad to be rid of me.”

“Not in this universe,” Fidds sighs and he looks him up and down, “So, seein’ where’s I found ya this morning, I’m takin’ it you two hashed it all out? That you’re back for good?”

“Yeah,” Stan confirms, “I am.”

“‘S good ta hear.”

“I’ll just bet,” Stan chuckles, “Ford’s telling me you’re moving out.”

“ _Shiiiit_ ,” Fidds draws out as he eyes the door, “He knew?”

“Yup,” he chuckles, “Get why you thought you’d get it past ‘im though. He’s oblivious about most everything like, ninety-nine percent of the time.”

Fidds breathes in loudly and now he’s the one to look guilty, “I didn’t want to add to his troubles. Not while you were gone.”

“His troubles? Whatta about mine?” Stan gasps with mock pain, “You’re leaving me high an’ dry, man! Who am I suppose ta play console games with now, huh? I can’t be left alone with this nerd alla the time! Mean, I love him, but sometimes he’s dull as dishwater! Gotta have my buddy here!”

He steps forward and smacks at Fidds’ arms. Fidds pushes him away with an affectionate smirk, “Think you two can manage on your own. ‘Sides, who left who first, huh? You went off gallavantin’ with that band for three months! Who do you think I played games with then? You know I can’t play with Susie – she owns my ass at shooters!”

Stan shudders, “God, don’t remind me. Hard ta believe a sweet thing like her can turn so vicious. But you put a remote control in her hand and…Jesus Christ, man.”

The two laugh and Fidds shakes his head, “I’m not gonna be far, Stanley. You know that. And you two…you’ll do just fine. ‘Sides, I got some…ideas.”

The way he says it makes Stan’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, “Oh yeah?”

Fidds just nods and right when Stan’s about to ask what he means by that Ford comes out. He looks sleepy until he sees Stan, then his whole face lights up and Stan feels his heart expand. That look, _that look_ …it’s just for him. _Just for him_. Ford comes over and gives him a gentle kiss and Fidds grins, “Guess I’ll be a good roommate one last go ‘round and make you two some breakfast.”

Neither Stan nor Ford can hear, too consumed with one another to respond.

 

+

 

Shandra loves to be right.

It’s what she lives for and she’s practically floating off the ground tonight. A great crowd has already amassed and all hands are on deck. Coffee is pouring like rain and the cash register is going berserk as they fill orders left and right. This is proving to be even more profitable than their normal Friday night jam session. The Press Room is packed tight and the first performer is already earning some adulation.

Susan’s off to one side with a tiny table of her own and when she sees Shandra she gives a tiny wave. Shandra comes over and eyes all the desserts on the table with longing, “God, you _really_ want to make me the size of a boat, don’t you?”

“You can have whatever you want,” Susan says gaily, “Free of charge.”

“Monster.”

“You know it,” Susan giggles and she holds out a cupcake, “Interested?”

“You will not tempt me, wench!” Shandra jokes and her friend looks craftily over her creations. There are cupcakes, churros, macarons, cookies and more. She taps one hand to her lips, “Hmm, I’ve got something here for everybody…but you? You, I seem to recall, like…”

She picks up a handmade truffle and waggles it in Shandra’s face. Shandra glares at her, “I hate you.”

“ _Aha ha_! Just the opposite, I think,” She promises and Shandra curses as she takes the treat and pops it in her mouth. The explosive taste of chocolate is to die for and she can feel her eyes roll into the back of her head as she hums, “God…you’re right. I _adore_ you.”

“Thought so,” Susan boasts, “So, any sign of Stan or Ford yet?”

“Not yet – and you said you’re sure that Stanley _is_ back?”

She nods, “Yeah, Fidds texted me this morning. Said he met them at their apartment and they’re back to basics – bet that makes you happy.”

“Pleased as punch,” Shandra agrees, “Toby called too – said he’s almost back to town, so soon all will be right with the world again,” she pauses and looks thoughtful, “Well…save one or two minor alterations.”

“Are you talking about you and a certain Mister Daniel Corduroy?” her friend teases and Shandra shakes her head, “Nah, not quite. Playing that casual. I meant Preston, hell – even Sanchez.”

“Sanchez?” this is asked with complete bewilderment. Susan knows only a little about the Flesh Curtains. It’s not her kind of music and she honestly hasn’t done much research into who’s playing here. As such, the name catches her up short.

“Rick Sanchez – he’s the leader of that band Stan went off with. I interviewed him earlier, thought it would be good for my new news podcast. He is, after all, something of a celebrity. Not to mention I wanted to dig into how he and Stanley interacted and it’s very…interesting.”

“I don’t know if I like how you said that.”

Shandra laughs, “Well, let’s just say Ford isn’t the only one with some poor sap lusting after him. Honestly, these boys and their romantic dramas…shameful.”

Susan snorts, “True. You think they’d have better things to worry about, like-,” the conversation cuts short as Susan rises up from her seat from behind her table and starts waving at the front door, “Fidds! Honey! Over here!”

Fidds sees her and grins, returning the wave. He pushes through the crowds and manages to get her in a bear hug. He gives her a kiss and Shandra looks at him expectantly, “Well? Are they with you?”

“They’re coming. Hold your horses, girl!”

“It’s not horses I’m worried about!” Shandra snaps and she quickly darts into the backroom. She grabs the chalkboard advert and quickly drags it to the front door. She stands beside it and waits, heart in her throat, body buzzing. The outside air is crisp and cool, the night absolutely perfect for this and she finds herself dizzy with how well everything is going. She hopes this will be the icing on the cake. When she catches sight of Stan and Ford walking up she has to restrain herself from rushing over to them.

Instead she waits until they’re closer before she waves a sweeping hand towards the chalkboard advert, her joy palpable, “Hey, boys!”

The brothers look down to see the advert has swirling script that reads ‘Operation Bring Back Stanley’ and she gives them the world’s biggest smile, “I was tempted to tack on ‘was a success’ or something like that on the back, buuuuuut instead I wrote this!”

She quickly twirls it around and on the back is written, ‘Soup of the Day: Coffee!’

Both Stan and Ford look at one another, eyes squinted as they wear matching expressions of dismay and Shandra tugs at the collar of her blouse, “Well? What…what do you guys think? I tried to make it similar to something you would write.”

“Oh, um. Shandra, it’s…” Ford struggles to answer but Stan just shakes his head, “It’s awful.”

“Stanley!” Ford cries but Stan just goes on, “I mean, I like that this whole thing was fer me, that’s sweet and all, but that joke awful. You need something with a little more pizazz. Like,” he holds up his hands as if framing the words, “’Drink here! Because I put LSD in one of the cups and forgot which!’ Or, oh! How’s about – ‘our coffee is an experience chalk is unable to convey!’”

Shandra moves away from the advert her full attention on Stan, mouth trembling. She throws herself bodily into his arms and he tumbles back a little, unprepared for the weight and force of her movements. She hugs him tightly, practically squeezing the air from him as she whimpers, “Oh, _Stanley_ – I missed you _SO_ much!”

Stan’s hands are still sort of raised and he looks at Ford in astonishment. Ford just laughs and shakes his head. Stan huffs and slowly lowers his hands, patting her back and returning the embrace, “Missed you too, Shandra.”

 

+

 

“C’n I see now?”

“No.”

“How ‘bout _now_?”

A heavy sigh, “No.”

“NOW?”

“You must be patient, Bethany,” Preston supplies and Beth makes a face, “Who Befany?”

“Isn’t that your full name?” Preston asks and Beth shakes her head with such animation that he groans, “Stop that! You’ll ruin all my hard work!”

Beth sucks in loud lungful’s of air, her little body practically lifting off the seat she’s sitting on, “This is takin’ FOREVER.”

“No need for the theatrics, young lady,” Preston gently chides, “I’m…almost…done.”

His words slow as he struggles with his work. Beth chews on her lower lip and wonders if that’s really true. Preston’s long fingers are carefully combing through her golden locks and while she feels restless, she has to admit some excitement. She wonders how she’ll look when he’s _finally_ done. She wiggles a little and wonders where her Daddy’s gone. Last she saw him, he’d been grumbling about Stanfy and she has to admit – she misses her normal sitter. But Prinsin is nice.

The first time she met him she thought his name was ‘Princess’ and both Daddy and Stanfy laughed about that for a long time. Prinsin didn’t seem to think it was as funny and he’d looked kinda mad. She was scared he was mad at her, so she’d shrunk away from him when he’d first approached her. But then, much to her surprise, he bowed over one of her hands and said softly, ‘My name is Preston. _You_ are the princess, my dear.’

Then he’d kissed her hand and she’d giggled because it was so silly! Silly, but like something the princes would do in her fairy stories and he _was_ awful pretty – just like a prince! So, Prinsin he became! He traveled with them from their last location to here; Stanfy’s home, and she wonders how long he’ll stick around. Same for Daddy. She’s already heard hushed whispers – soon, her Mommy is going to come back.

Beth loves Mommy, she _does_. But she’ll miss them all. She’ll miss Birdy and Squishy. Stanfy and Prinsin…but most of all, she’ll miss Daddy. Daddy, who she hardly feels like she got to see at all. Thinking of it now makes her feel sad. She doesn’t like to feel sad, so she turns her attentions back to Preston, “Are you done noooooow?”

She sing songs the last bit and she highly expects Preston to sigh at her again (he does that a LOT) but instead she gets a proud, “Yes!”

“Ohh, ohh! I wanna see! I wanna see!”

“Alright, alright,” he carefully turns her towards one of the many big mirrors in the trailer. Beth’s eyes grow wide as she sees herself. Flowers have been carefully woven into her hair and the sight makes her squeal. Preston’s nose wrinkles, “I don’t understand…do you not like it? Or does that dreadful sound mean you-?”

“I so PRETTY!” Beth shouts and Preston relaxes considerably, “Yes, you look quite lovely,” he fingers one of the flowers, “Do you know what this is?”

She shakes her head and he looks pleased, “This is a daisy. Can you say ‘daisy’?”

The look she shoots him tells him this is a stupid question. He huffs, “Well _, there’s_ the familial resemblance. Your father would be proud.”

This remark turns her originally sour face to one of happiness and he just pokes one of the daisies again, “Do you know what they mean?”

He doesn’t give her time to answer, “Innocence. Much like the baby’s breath I used with it, although that can also mean pureness. And for a closer…”

Preston reaches into the nice basket he purchased from the nearby florist. It’s full of all kinds of pretty flowers but the one he hands her now is exceptionally pretty, “Here is a lily. Lilies have different meanings, but this one is for refined beauty – which you are!”

Beth clutches the lily to her chest and turns to Preston, who looks sort of uneasy. For the most part he’s been good around her, but every now and then he looks lost. It’s clear that children are not really his area of expertise. This is proven, as she hops up from her seat and goes over to hug him. He’s risen to standing from where he was working so he now towers over her. As such, she wraps her little limbs around his legs and he grows stiff, looking down at her aghast.

His hands waver over her head as if he’s going to pat her. However, he doesn’t follow through with the action - either because he doesn’t want to spoil all his hard work or he’s unsure if it’s appropriate. Probably both. Luckily he’s spared when Rick pops his head in, “HEY! BETH! PRINCESS! You two in here?”

Beth lets out a high pitched noise of elation as she releases Preston and runs to Rick, “Daddy! Look it!”

Rick reaches down and scoops her up, “I see. N-nice, sweetie. You-you look like a real cabbage patch kid.”

Preston glares at him, “She looks good.”

“Not…not sayin’ she- _hic_!-she doesn’t! Wh-why’re you hatin’ on cabbage patch kids? They’re-they’re an American icon or something, I don’t know,” he jostles Beth about a bit, using the motions to surreptitiously sneak in a kiss to one of her cheeks. Beth grins and starts sucking on some of her fingers. Rick puts her down, “How’s-how’s ‘bout you-you go and find Stanley, Beth? Heard-heard him and his bro are here.”

“Stanfy! FERD!” Beth battle cries as she rushes out of the trailer. Preston shakes his head and suddenly seems interested in ‘cleaning’ up. He moves various things from spot to spot and Rick silently watches him for a while, “S-so Princess, this your plan? You just,” he pauses and takes a big swig of his trusty flask, “just going to hide in here from the Pines you’re pining for?”

Rick chuckles, clearly thinking he’s clever for the way he’s phrased this question. Preston doesn’t think so, muttering, “I’m not ‘pining’ over any Pines.”

“S-sure you are,” Rick drinks again, burping loudly before continuing, “I-I get it, man. I do. Have you _seen_ Stanley’s ass? It’s…it’s like a perfect bubble. Just wanna bite it. If his brother’s ass is even _close_ …”

Preston gasps with disgust, “I don’t want to bite anyone’s ass!”

Rick just raises his eyebrow at this and Preston shifts from foot to foot, looing apprehensive, “If…if you _must_ know, I’m merely…uncomfortable with seeing Stanford again. We left things on a…a precarious note. I’m not sure what to say to him.”

“Well, you sure as fuck ain’t gonna say _anything_ to him if you just cower in here the entire goddamn night,” Rick returns archly and he walks over to Preston, offering his flask. Preston eyes it, but shakes his head. Rick shrugs as if it’s Preston loss and takes several more glugs before wiping his mouth, “Look, why-why don’t you and the missus just tell him about your wild night together. Bet that’d go over in a biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig way.”

The look he’s given is classic Northwest revulsion, “There is no ‘missus’. While my own memories of that night’s events are…hazy, I am quite positive that I did not enter into any matrimonial entanglements with anyone. Especially not with _Stanley_ Pines. Your boasting of the contrary is a patent falsehood.”

“Yer-yer right. You…you actually married _me_ , so…I need ‘bout – about a thou- _hic_!-ousand dollars,” Rick jokes and gets an eye roll for his trouble, “I have no idea why you and Stan persist on this…this ‘teasing’.”

He finger quotes ‘teasing’ and Rick shakes his head, “Don’t know why Stanley does it, considering _I’m_ the only one of us that actually remembers what went down that night.”

“You know, you _could_ be charitable and actually tell us both what happened.”

“Where’s-where’s the fun in that?!” Rick laughs at this so hard and for so long that it all concludes in a fit of ugly coughs. Preston gives him another eye roll and goes back to ‘cleaning’. Once he gets ahold of himself, Rick says, “L-look, all shit aside – I-I _am_ being charitable when you think about it. I legitimately don’t give a fuck about you, yet here I am tryin’ to-to encourage you to get out there and-and talk to that six fingered guy that every-everybody’s got a massive hard on for. Mean, at this point I’m-I’m thinking ‘six fingers’ is a euphemism for like-like the thickness of his dick or something.”

Preston stops again, “Ugh! How can someone be so vile?! No, it is not a _euphemism_. Stanford Pines merely has six fingers! And as to why everyone is so attached to him, I had similar questions myself about Stanley Pines. I managed to answer most of them by meeting the individual in question, so I’d recommend you do the same.”

“Did it,” Rick mutters, “Not in-in this dimension but, but…”

“What?”

Rick waves a hand, “Never mind. You couldn’t even begin to understand.”

“I understand plenty,” Preston snaps, “Including how you’re full of shit.”

“Oh ho ho! I’d loooooooove to hear this! Lay it on me, wise guy,” Rick flops down on a nearby seat and folds his arms. He’s had a lot of people try to tell him who he is, lots of people try to analyze and explain him away and every single time they’ve been wrong, so he’s relishing hearing this latest go round of how he’s ‘not such a bad guy’ and how he ‘secretly has a heart’ or some bullshit like that.

But to his surprise, Preston looks at him and says, “I just did.”

“Did what?”

“‘Lay it on you’. You’re full of shit, Rick Sanchez. You talk a big game and drink yourself into oblivion, but at the end of the day – that’s all there is. Shit. You’re full of it and you expect that everyone else is as well and you’re not entirely wrong and that’s what kills you – that at the end of the day, despite all your brilliance and derision – you’re really not that different from everyone else. You’re not special, no one is – you know it and hate it but there’s no way to change it and that’s where we are.”

Rick sits up, “I’ll – I’ll give you this, Northwest. _That’s_ a new one. Not…not on the money. But new.”

Preston just shrugs and Rick groans, head falling back, “Fuck! Already – already expanded my list of-of people to give a shit about to-to like, six. Don’t make me tack on another.”

“You already did,” Preston returns blithely, “Otherwise you’d have left this trailer by now.”

“Fuck,” Rick repeats and he looks at Preston, “You – you could do me a favor then and get the fuck out.”

Preston deflates, “I’m… _he’s_ out there.”

“So? Thought – thought you weren’t pining for him?”

“I’m _not_ ,” he stresses the word and Rick snorts, “Yeah, okay. Tell-tell Mr. Tumnus ‘hi’ for me. You’re – you’re so committed to being buried in that closet.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“That's what they tell me.”

Preston walks over to the door to leave the trailer and Rick feels a tiny bit of triumph until Preston adds, “But just for the record…you’re a _nice_ asshole.”

“F-Fuck that! That is the _last_ thing I am, Northwest!”

“A nice asshole with a sweet daughter,” Preston’s voice turns quiet, “You should spend more time with her, Sanchez. She deserves that.”

At those words the mood in the trailer immediately shifts. Rick hurls his flask at Preston’s head and misses. It hits the wall with a loud clamor and Rick opens his mouth to curse Preston out, his eyes wide, as he vaults to his feet. His chest rises and falls rapidly as anger fills him with righteous fury, but he doesn’t get a chance to expel it, Preston’s hands raised in surrender, “You’ve given me plenty of advice. I’m merely returning the favor.”

He ducks out before Rick can say or do anything else which just leaves Rick there feeling…huh. Just that. _Feeling_.

“Son of a bitch,” Rick grumbles and he rubs at his face. The last thing he wants to think about is Beth, especially not tonight. He also doesn’t want to think about the thundercunt who birthed her and is coming back any day now to collect her. Granted, she hadn’t _always_ been a thundercunt, but then things had fallen apart and, well…

A sound of frustration explodes out of him and he kicks out at the nearest bit of furniture he sees. Lately everything’s been sucking a huge dick. Stan’s leaving, Beth’s leaving, and he finds that he gives a shit and that’s just _not_ acceptable. He should be fucking _relieved_ , nothing else. No other emotions, period. Maybe it’s time for him to travel. _Really_ travel. Honestly, he’s too stationary for a Rick. It’s unnatural. He’s had his fun with the band, had his fun in this dimension – it’s time for him to go.

Thinking of the portal gun, he draws it out and contemplates it. He always has it with him. Always. People never see it, because he’s a fucking _genius_ , and he keeps it concealed in ways they can’t even begin to imagine, but it’s always on him, because he’s always this close to leaving. He toys with the trigger…it’d be _so_ easy. But then these faces flash before his eyes, these commitments…

That makes it all the easier to fire the damned thing. A slimy green ring appears, a swirling portal. Rick looks at it and thinks about how easy it would be to just step right through it. How easy it would be to escape. Instead he just lets it click shut on its own and leaves the trailer. It’s a fucking beautiful night. Gross.

The trailer is parked in an alley away from prying eyes. He can easily slip behind the ‘stage’ and he does so now. There’s not a lot of cover back here, but enough so that he doesn’t have to contend with the prying eyes of fans. And he knows fans are out there – they always are. Even though this is a sort of secret affair, a surprise show, word tends to get out.

Granted, their manager must have kept a pretty tight leash on it this time, because he doesn’t see nearly as many people out there as he would normally see when the Flesh Curtains are announced at a venue. But he does catch sight of their super fan, which is no shocker. Tyler Cutebiker is at every single one of their shows, whether it’s announced or not.

The kid is closest to the stage and damn near vibrating with excitement. Rick can almost hear his ever present chant of ‘get ‘im, get ‘im!’. Rick’s never been sure what the fuck that _means_ exactly, but that’s a super fan for you. It’s half the reason he called Jimmy to come by. The biker was willing to ride up and offer a little extra muscle. Rick’s not about to have some mouth breather ambush him when he performs, especially considering he’ll be the highlight of the night.

Rick knows this for certain as he looks around at the performers getting ready to go to bat. Amateurs the lot of them. Although he does catch sight of Marceline. He has no idea who managed to book her for this, but he’ll give them some credit – that girl’s going places. Birdperson and Squanchy are off to one side talking to Greg Universe, because someone (probably Birdperson – ugh) opened their yap and told him about this show, so he decided to hitch along with them after all.

God, if Greg comes up to him and says just one word he’ll-

Rick’s thoughts screech to a halt when he suddenly catches sight of a certain one-eyed bastard. At first Rick’s positive he imagined him, but the more he looks at him, the more he realizes he’s solid. Solid and in a body and isn’t that just fucking peachy? Rick groans – isn’t his night tough enough as it is? Now he has to deal with this shit?

He charges over to the little demon to see him working over some stupid ass DJ equipment. The sight makes him cringe – is this little fuck actually doing some sort of dubstep shit tonight? He clears his throat loudly before talking, “Whaa- _urp_!-aaat the fuck are you doin’ here, Cipher?”

“Well, well, well – if it isn’t Rick Sanchez!” Bill greets with a killer smile, his one exposed eye practically glowing neon white as he looks away from his equipment, “Didn’t think I’d see you in these neck of the woods.”

“Whatever. Beat it, you isosceles fuck. Ain’t nobody got time for your shit.”

Bill rolls the eye, “I don’t know if you’re on your first drink of the night or your fifteenth hundred, but just in case it escaped your notice, I’m not triangular in this particular dimension. Got myself a pretty nice meat suit here – verrrrry,” he wiggles all his fingers in Rick’s face, “Limber.”

Rick smacks the fingers away, “Trust me, I noticed. Feel sorry for the poor sap you’re wearing. How’d you get ‘im?”

“Aw, does it really matter, Unibrow? Point is, this ain’t my first puppet and it’s not gonna be my last,” Bill throws an arm around Rick’s shoulders and tugs him close, inkling his head to one side as he whispers conspiratorially in his ear, “if you know what I mean.”

Rick follows the movement and sees Bill’s clearly indicating Stan and Ford, who are just within their eye sight. Rick bites off a curse and pushes Cipher away, “Whatever. I could care less.”

“Oh ho ho ho, big talk! But we both know _that’s_ not true,” Bill chuckles and Rick sneers, “Don’t-don’t try that-that garbage on me. I-I-I’m not – _hic_!- not one of your starry eyed rubes who…who falls for your tricksy shit! You can try to dance circles around me alllllllllll night and I’ll _still_ put your ass in the ground, you pyramid pussy!”

Bill just looks gleeful and merely starts walking, hands deep in his pockets. Rick follows and soon enough they’re over near his trailer, away from everyone else. Once some privacy is achieved, Bill resumes talking, “Fair enough. I’ll admit – you _are_ pretty smart, Sanchez. Doesn’t matter what dimension we’re in – everyone knows it’s best to steer clear of Ricks. Speaking of – how’re they doing at the Citadel? Never been myself, but I hear it’s some fancy digs.”

When it’s clear Rick’s not going to even dignify that with a response, Bill changes tactics, “Look, look – if it makes you feel any better. I was invited here.”

Rick almost asks ‘by whom’ but it takes him only a millisecond to know exactly who. Ford Pines. Christ. _This_ is the guy Stan’s in love with? Rick pinches the bridge of his nose, “Kid’s an idiot – but he’s not _that_ dumb. No doubt you talked your way into it. And now you can just find your way out,” Rick reaches into his jacket and withdraws the portal gun, pointing it at him, “or I can help you.”

Bill looks at the gun and sighs dreamily, “Y’know, Unibrow – sometimes I wish you _were_ dumber. It’d be so much easier to deal with you than with these Pines pushovers. Bit of flattery and I can get IQ to eat out of my hand, but you? You’re a real piece of work. An _artist_.”

Rick’s eyes narrow and his finger tightens on the trigger. Bill has the most predatory of looks on his face, the one visible eye’s iris a sharp slit, “But I know I can’t get that gun from you. Not from any Rick. I need simpler minds and simpler hands to make my portal.”

“No. Not here. Not this time,” Rick warns and he sounds perfectly sober, lethal. Bill is overly delighted, so much so that he actually claps a little, “My, my, my – are you their knight in shining armor? Never thought you’d take on that role. Or maybe it’d be better to say you’re their guardian angel. Does that make me the devil?”

“Jeeeeesus, I wish you’d shut up,” Rick grumbles and Bill laughs, “Well, either way – you _are_ right. You heard me! Congratulations! Ding, ding, _DING_! You _win_ this round, Unibrow! After all, I might’ve miscalculated a little. Ol’ Sixer is _clearly_ not ready. Not _yet_. But down the road? You and I both know how this is gonna end.”

“It’s not.”

“Care to make a little wager?” Bill asks and his teeth are sharp points, the eye yellow and feral, hands with the slightest blue glow, “Or better yet – a deal?”

Rick pulls the trigger and the portal appears right behind Bill. He kicks him squarely through it. The portal clicks closed with a snap. Rick breathes in deep and sighs. Bill won’t be gone for long. He never is. Part of Rick wishes he could do more but a bigger part knows better, knows there’s no point.

Because, as much as he hates it, Bill’s right – it’s always only a matter of time.

 

+

 

Stan and Ford are into the thick of the Press Room when Stan catches sight of a familiar bandana. At first he thinks he imagines the flash of red but as he comes closer and closer he sees the distinctive blonde mustache and he shoves his way through little more roughly than before. When he finally reaches Jimmy he holds out a hand for him to shake, “Holy-! Jimmy! What’re you doing here?!”

Jimmy offers a friendly smirk and takes the hand, shaking it, “Rick called me. Needed a bouncer. Money’s good, so here I am.”

Ford looks at the biker with wide eyes and Stan stops shaking his hand to look a little sheepish as he pushes his twin forward, “Ah, Ford – this is Jimmy. Jimmy, Ford.”

Jimmy quietly assess Ford from head to toe, “So – this is him? The guy whose name you shouted when we was goin’ at it?”

Stan colors and Ford starts gasping like a fish out of water. Jimmy tosses back his head and laughs. He nudges Ford and damn near knocks him over, “Just messin’ with you, kid. I’m happy to meet you. Happy to see this all work out. Me? I’m a fan of happy endings.”

Stan waves it off, not really caring, and Ford just stands there, still sort of stunned by what little has transpired. Thankfully more faces arrive to break up the awkwardness of the moment. Shandra, Fidds, and Susan emerge with Fidds carrying a very excitable Beth. Her face is covered with something pink. No doubt from some confection of Susan’s. She looks at Stan with hearts in her eyes, “Stanfy!”

Fidds carefully hands her over and Stan beams, “Beth! What’re you doing out here? What happened to your face?”

“Came to see you! Saw candy!”

“I see – so you got distracted, huh?” Stan chuckles and wipes at her face as best as he can. He turns her to face Ford, “This is my brother, pumpkin.”

“FERD!” she shrieks and holds out her hands to transfer to his arms. Ford seems a little unsure about taking her, but Stan merely passes her over, “C’mon, Sixer – don’t be rude!”

“I’m-! I’ve never-!”

“Just don’t drop her, genius!” Stan encourages and Ford holds her as best as he can. He doesn’t have the best grip however, so eventually he just sets her down. This is fine with Beth, because it gives her a better chance to contemplate his fingers, “Eeeeee! Pretty!”

“That’s…that’s new,” Ford offers weakly as she plays with his fingers. She looks at each one with fascination and Ford feels strangely flattered. Beth pokes at his nails, “Paint?”

“Paint?”

Her head damn near bobbles when she nods, “Like Daddy?”

Ford looks up to Stan who just shrugs, “Rick paints his nails.”

“Paint!” Beth insists and Shandra swoops in, face pure evil, “You know – I got some blue nail polish in my purse. It even matches the beanie you’re wearing tonight, Ford.”

One of Ford’s hands goes to his beanie reflexively and presses on it. He’s already started shaking his head in denial, but Beth is clearly pleased, another shriek leaving her. Stan laughs and pats his brother’s shoulder, “Well, well – looks like you two got something to do while I set up! We’re on in about ten minutes, so…”

“What? No! Stan! STANLEY!” Ford cries but it’s too late – Stan has disappeared into the crowd with Jimmy.

Ford looks absolutely terrified at this turn of events and Fidds takes pity on him, “Don’t worry, pal. Susie and me’ll help.”

“I’ll help too,” Shandra coos but it’s clear she’s only intent on her promise to paint his nails as she goes for her purse. Beth looks at him, pure childish mischief and Ford resigns himself to the fact that – before the night is out – he’s going to have blue nails.

 

+

 

The concert is well under way, which makes things a little easier for Fiddleford to slip away. It’s not that the Press Room isn’t still packed to capacity – it is. But most of it has surged towards the stage to be as close to the Flesh Curtains as possible. Fidds listens to a good hunk of the songs. The band does several of their pieces before breaking it up with some covers.

Whitesnake’s ‘Here I Go Again’, Mötley Crüe’s ‘Dr. Feelgood’, Rolling Stones’ ‘Start Me Up’, and Van Halen’s ‘Drop Dead Legs’, which doesn’t seem to be a cover, so much as Rick worshiping at Stan’s feet and getting in a couple of ass grabs. So much so, that Fidds really feels the need to cover Beth’s eyes at different intervals.

Although Beth was already good and distracted at that point, both her and Shandra focused on transforming Ford’s nails until they are painted a glittering dark blue. The polish is a quick dry, which is fortunate, because when the band switches to Stan actually singing, Ford needs dry hands to cover his face. Mainly because Stan is doing a very passionate rendition of KISS’ ‘I Was Made for Lovin' You’ and it’s clear he’s directing it to a blushing Ford.

It’s a little around this time that Fidds manages to sneak off. He makes sure to give Susan a quick peck on the cheek, letting her know he’ll be right back and she doesn’t ask questions, because she doesn’t need to. They have that rare connection where they seem to know exactly what the other is thinking. This is proven true, because before he goes she tugs him close enough so he can hear, “I’d check out front.”

Fidds nods and does as she suggests and, sure enough, that’s where he finds him. Preston Northwest is right outside the Press Room’s front door, back pressed against the glass. There are a couple others out here too, most of them smoking and laughing, but not too many. And they all seem keen to finish up quick and get back to the show.

Preston stands apart, a solitary soldier on the fringes of everyone else’s excitement. He looks like a completely different person from the one Fidds knows. For one thing, his posture is more demure. For another, he’s got a multicolored beanie slapped down over his immaculately styled hair. Fidds recognizes the beanie and shakes his head as he walks over.

Preston doesn’t notice him at first, gaze directed at the ground. Fidds leans his own back against the glass next to him, hands in his pockets. They both stand there, silent for the longest time, before Fidds finally says, “Thought I’d find you out here. You’re missin’ all the fun, y’know.”

He gets a hum of noise for his trouble and he breathes in deep, “Don’t have ta do this anymore, Preston. Be apart from everybody. You dropped that Northwest superiority, made some friends – no reason to keep yourself secluded. No reason ta be alone. Not anymore.”

“You make it sound as if my entire life has been a lie, Fiddleford.”

“Toldja, it’s ‘Fidds’. And I’d say a lot of it has,” he looks at him but Preston still avoids his eyes, “Though I ‘magine sometimes fiction’s bleeded inta reality. You play the part of the rich, spoiled jackass long enough, I figure it starts to feel less and less like an act. Could be you’dve toppled fully over into it, given time. But you didn’t. You came right back from the edge.”

“Because of him,” the words are so quietly spoken as to almost be inaudible but Fidds catches them, “Not just him, Preston. Don’t discount the rest of us. Or yourself. You did a lot of this an’ you did it on your own. Hell, you’re the one who made alla this possible. You got us the band, you brought Stanley back – _you_ did that.”

“For purely selfish reasons, I assure you,” Preston chuckles but there’s no humor in the sound. Fidds smirks sadly, “You really don’t put a lot of stock in faith, do you?”

This question actually causes Preston to finally look at him and Fidds explains, “You’re thinking this is all over. Now Stan’s back, we’re no longer your friends. Ford’s not gonna give you the time of day. Am I guessin’ this correctly?”

“It’s…not inaccurate.”

“Boy, I don’t know how many times we gotta tell ya that ain’t gonna happen,” Fidds barely gets this out before Preston cuts through it with a hissed, “I’m _sorry_ , but it’s truly hard for me to think otherwise! I’ve served my purpose, haven’t I!? Stanley and Stanford can now live happily ever after, skip off into the sunset, and I…I can just go and…”

He can’t seem to find the words to continue and Fidds eyes him, “Well, see, here’s where I’ve come up with a brilliant solution. A bonafide way to ease your worries and make it so you’ll always be a part of things no matter what.”

“Oh? And that is?”

Fidds scratches at his beard, “Well…I _am_ moving out…”

Preston blinks several times as this announcement sinks in. When he finally gets the unspoken meaning behind Fidds words he lets out a choked off laugh, “You’re _actually_ suggesting I move in with them?”

“Why not?”

“Why-?” Preston’s sputters for several moments, just strangled noises leaving before he manages, “Where do I even begin? I already have a place of residence-”

“Which I’m sure you hate.”

“-my father will _never_ approve-“

“Ain’t his business.”

“-and I don’t wish to have their relationship rubbed in my face!”

“Why’d you care?” Fidds concludes, “Thought Northwest’s weren’t gay. Thought you didn’t have a crush on Ford.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Preston snaps, “But that doesn’t mean I relish the idea of seeing he and Stanley romantically wrapped around one another on a daily basis! And regardless of whether or not it’s my father’s business, there’s no way on earth he’ll let me-!”

“You’re grown, Preston,” Fidds cuts in sharply, eyes hot, “You’ve put time and money into the very building Stan and Ford are currently in. Worse comes to worse, you can tell your old man you’re merely keeping an eye on your investment. And as for their relationship, well, you need to ask yourself a very important question. What’s more important to you? Romance or friendship?”

The question seems to trip Preston up and Fidds looks away from him. He looks up at the night sky and sighs, “I ever tell you ‘bout when I first met ‘em? The Pines twins?”

Fidds catches Preston’s head shake out of the corner of his eyes before saying, “I’d just come ta school. Ain’t never been away from home before – much less so far. I love my home, my family, my friends…it’s not like what you and Stan and Ford have been through. I’ve been supported and loved, but even with that, I never fit quite right. Almost always felt outta place. Lost, alone. Had no one who really seemed to get _me_ , to understand…”

He trails off, not continuing in that thread, instead switching tack, “Anyhoo, I get to my dorm and there’s Ford. And he’s trying to act all nonchalant, but I can already tell something’s up. I even _hear_ somebody breathing in the tiny cupboard of a closet we got. I’m thinkin’ it’s a girl or a dog or somethin’ and then what rolls out, but an exact opposite of the kid I just met!”

“An exact opposite yet leagues different and next thing I know, I got these two fellas sort of falling all over me. Beggin’ me to let ‘em stay together, beggin’ me to keep their secret. So naturally I say ‘yes’ and first thing I’m thinking is, well, great! Guess there goes my chance. I’m going to be more alone than ever! These two are gonna be all over one another, thick as thieves, and I’ll be left all to my lonesome. Mean, if I can’t even get close to my roommate, whom I gonna get close to, right?”

Fidds smiles at the memory, remembering it with almost crystal clarity, “So I’m preparing to feel all sorry for myself, all set to be lonely and miserable for the rest of my college days when these two bozos go and do the complete _opposite_ of what I think. They include me in _everything_ , ask me to go _everywhere_. They make me a part of their duo – up it to a trio and I’m just…floored. Ecstatic. They make me feel special, they make me feel like I’m a part of things - they make me feel like I _belong_.”

“But you _do_ belong,” Preston argues, “You fit with them.”

He gets a head shake at this, “No, you’re not listening. I _didn’t_ fit with them. Not at first. Not gonna get into all the nitty gritty, but we had our troubles at first. Didn’t just fall in all smooth. There were bumps in the road, but we made it happen, we became close, and I found myself. Least; got a little closer to it, seein’ as I think we all probably spend the whole of our lives looking for who exactly we are. We spend a lot of it lost, Preston. But we don’t _have_ to do it alone when we got friends. You _need_ friends, Preston. You need ‘em more than romance, more than a relationship – you need Stan and Ford.”

Preston looks horribly uncomfortable and he rubs at his arms as if he’s cold, eyes focused off to one side as if he can’t bear the idea of looking at Fidds, “But they don’t need me.”

“Sure they do. I played a big part in their lives when they got first here and now you’re gonna play a big part with ‘em back. Think about it, Preston – you brought them together. Not just once, but twice. Without you, lord knows where’d they be. You’re the glue.”

“Hardly,” Preston scoffs, “They’re stronger together, better together – they both know that now.”

“You tellin’ me you don’t think they’ll forget that again?”

“I shouldn’t have to be their keeper!”

“Not their keeper,” Fidds corrects as he pats one of Preston’s arms, “Their _friend_.”

Preston looks at the hand on his arm, “I don’t know how I’ve come to this point in my life. I regret it, I truly do – I wish I could go back in time and have kept my mouth shut.”

“No, you don’t,”

“No, I don’t,” Preston agrees sheepishly and he groans, rubbing at his face. When he finally pulls his hands away, Fidds is still there, still looking at him and he inhales, “I guess I could…at least think about it.”

“Don’t take too long,” Fidds encourages with another quick arm pat. He turns to go but stops just long enough to incline his head towards the door, “Come on. Time you got back in here.”

“In a minute,” Preston hates the pleading note in his voice but Fidds respects it and leaves him to his thoughts.

 

+

 

The event is a rousing success.

It’s a little past midnight and everyone has finally cleared out, save those rare few who actually work for the Press Room. Clean up is well underway and Shandra keeps counting the money they earned over and over, clearly enamored with it. Beth is passed out on the counter, her little body wrapped around one of Ford’s arms. He’s talking easily to both Fidds and Stan when Preston finally comes in.

The sight of his friend causes him to stand up a little straighter and he shoots Stan an imploring look. Stan nods and carefully extracts Beth from Ford. He cuddles her close and leaves, no doubt planning to settle her down in the trailer. Ford goes over towards Preston, who cautiously makes his way out to the patio. There are a few people collecting up gear and tossing away trash, but it’s easy enough to find a secluded spot and once in it, Ford immediately starts talking, “Hey, look, Preston, I’m-I’m so sorry about-!”

“There’s no need to apologize, Pines.”

“There are _plenty_ of reasons! Preston, you brought Stanley back! Everybody clued me in on it! You did that for _me_! You did it, even when you didn’t have to! You did it, despite how I…” Ford stops to growl at himself before picking up with, “I swear to god - I mean…I-I thought you might be…interested, on and off, but you just…you just kept denying it and swearing you weren’t gay, but then my dad said-!”

“I’m not,” Preston asserts and this seems to trip Ford up, “Huh?”

“Your father is incorrect. Whatever he told you,” he affirms, “I’m not gay, nor do I have any feelings for you past purely platonic ones. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Preston…” Ford starts, his tone reproaching, but Preston shakes his head, not looking at him as he softly murmurs, “However, if I _did_ …if I was foolish enough to actually indulge in some romantic fancies, I would admit that your…actions, would have been quite…painful.”

The words proliferate their way through Ford like a tiny hail of bullets and he winces, sucking in a wet breath, “Pres…”

“I would…” the sentence trails off and takes a while to pick up again, “I would like to think that, if you were ever of a mind to kiss me, you would wish to do it because you…because you _wanted_ to. Not as some sort of gambit to…”

Preston swallows loudly before whispering, “I am proud of you, you know. For standing up to your father. It is something I hope I myself will be capable of someday. But…well, when you did so, I just…I wish…I wish you hadn’t used me to do it.”

It’s all spoken so haltingly as to make Ford feel even worse and he wants to tug Preston into his arms, wants to hug him tight and apologize over and over again. Instead he gasps, “I know. I wish there was something I could do to…”

“There is,” Preston returns, not looking at him and Ford lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, “Name it, Preston. I’ll do anything! I’ll-!”

“I hear you have a…vacancy.”

Ford blinks, confused, and Preston finally looks at him, “You are in want of a roommate. Someone to help you and Stanley pay the bills. Your brother and I have come to something of an…understanding. And while I still view him as rather philistine, I think he and I could reside under the same roof. And if you are also present, well…”

“You…want to live with us?”

“It’s been brought to my attention that this move would keep me from being so easily disregarded.”

“I’d never disregard you, Preston,” Ford promises and he finally gives into his urge to hug him. Preston doesn’t return the hug, instead just sort of awkwardly smacking at Ford’s back, “There, there now – that’s enough of that! This is quite unbecoming.”

The laugh that chokes out of Ford makes Preston smile and Ford draws back to grin, “I’ll have to talk to Stanley about it, but I think…”

“Talk to Stanley about what?” Stan interrupts, Rick hot at his heels. Stan catches sight of Preston’s beanie and scowls, “Where the hell’d you get that?!”

“Your brother gave it to me,” Preston sniffs with such superiority that Stan wants to sock him and this is, of course, when Ford says, “Preston wants to move in with us.”

“What?” Stan goggles at the idea and Rick starts cursing a blue streak before finally grousing, “Don’t see why _he_ gets to be so lucky! Bitch is already rich AND good looking; now he gets to cuddle up between you two?! Where’s-where’s _MY_ chance to be the-the filling in this Stanwich?”

Ford and Preston both equally blush at this while Stan just chuckles incredulously, “You tellin’ me you want to settle down? Plant roots?”

“F-Fuck, no! Already doin’-doin’ that enough with agreeing to take Beth on a little longer,” this confession gets everyone to turn and look at Rick, who is chugging his flask as if it’s going out of style. When he finally stops he belches loudly and side eyes everyone, “WHAT.”

It’s not a question so much as a dare to ask about it further. Only Stanley risks it, “You’re going to keep Beth around?”

“J-Just another week,” Rick grumbles, “Texted her whore mom to let her know I’d-I’d keep the brat a _lil’_ longer. She’s…she’s a fucking burden and I’ll be glad to get rid ‘o her, but I figured I could…could manage it. Just for theee- _urp_!-e week, then-then I’m back on the road, man. Tour’s don’t take no breaks.”

Stan could easily argue how he himself knows for a fact that this isn’t true, but he decides to let it drop, quietly pleased with the idea of Rick actually spending some quality time with his daughter. What he’s less pleased with he turns to, griping, “C’mon, Ford – you actually think we need another roommate? I mean, Fidds was great and all, but you’re asking me to live with _Northwest_.”

“Um, uh huh – I think _I’m_ actually the one who will be making the sacrifice here,” Preston jeers, “After all, I’m the one who’s paid to have your building renovated, while you’ve been off traipsing the country with-!”

“I’ll trapeze you, you-!” Stan pulls Preston into a headlock and starts digging his knuckles into his scalp. Preston lets out abortive cries but it’s clear the moment is extremely playful. Ford’s eyes roll upwards and he wonders what he’s signing himself up for as Rick comes close to whisper in one ear, “S-Seriously, Sixy…you-you fuck things up with this group, I’m-I’m gonna come fuck you up. Stan’s, he’s…he’s a _real_ catch. Diff-different place, different time…I’d-I’d have me some of that.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? He’s…he’s worth chasing, man. Worth persuing.”

“Trust me, I know.”

“You…you better,” Rick mumbles and drinks more from his flask, “And as for Northwest, he’s-he’s a little shit. But he’s…y’know…a decent one. Mean…ninety nine percent of the time, he turns out like dick. But-but there’s the one percent. He’s-he’s the exception, not the rule.”

Ford looks at him with a frown, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t,” Rick looks at him warily, “Not yet. You…you still interested in portals?”

The question is so out of left field that Ford finally takes his gaze away from Stan and Preston’s roughhousing, “What?”

Rick debates on what to say. Finally he just shakes his head and looks up at the sky, “Ah well…you-you got some time at least.”

Ford’s not sure what to say to that and merely follows Rick’s gaze. They both look up to see a cascade of stars above them, the entire universe a laid out mystery yet to be explored.

 


	27. Chapter 27

"So I've been thinking…”

“You’ve been known ta do that,” Stan murmurs, not taking his attention away from the television screen. He’s mashing buttons on the controller like mad, trying his best to complete this level while Ford sits next to him on the couch, several textbooks and notecards spread out around him. It’s funny – so many things changed and so many stayed the same. He’s been home for a few weeks now and he has to admit; it’s good to be back. And not only because he gets to wake up every day with Ford in his arms.

It’s good to get back to work on construction sites, to pull shifts at the Press Room, it’s even good to wait for Ford until he gets out of classes, because those things are nicely familiar and slot up well with what is now unfamiliar. Things like carving out time every other day to go to the campus himself and attend classes on music, because somehow, someway, Preston managed to swing that for him.

Stan asked him about it, but Preston just waved it off, said Rick threatened him to do it and while this is entirely possible, Stan honestly thinks Rick and Preston worked in collusion with one another to give him this opportunity. It’s not one he’s wasting. It’s actually kind of fun to dedicate himself to some form of school work –  after all, this isn’t geometry or world history – this is _music_. And music is something he’s found himself growing more enamored with each day.

Not to mention it’s neat to be a college student albeit not in the traditional sense. He’s not going to earn a degree or anything, but he _does_ have a student ID and access to parts of campus that would have been barred to him before. Not to mention, hey, turns out - song writing is _actually_ a lot easier to learn alongside other people who are just as passionate about it. He never really thought of himself as particularly creative, but apparently this is not the case.

Stan’s found himself coming up with a slew of new, unique lyrics – things about beavercorns and thighclopses. The terms had started off as jokes – riffs on some of the supernatural phenomena Ford’s so into, but the other musicians he’s met like the ideas, tell him to run with it. Crazy, out there lyrics are apparently his thing, and he finds it all just falls into place, one song after the other.

 He’s already got about five or so slated to be on an EP he’s working on. He’s pretty proud of them, proud of the EP itself, which he’s decided to title ‘Mystery Shack’, because he thinks it’s pretty fitting. It sums up his collection of tunes – the album will be like a whole shack full of mysterious pieces, not too bad, right?

So, some things have changed, but only for the better. And some things, like Ford being impossibly awkward but adorable, have not and he grins as he sees his brother look flustered out of the corner of his eyes. Ford clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck, “Yes, uh, well – be that as it may, I – this thought, it’s, ah…very specific.”

“Ooookaaaay,” Stan draws out and Ford huffs, “Can you pause that? Please?”

Stan does as asked and turns his full attention to Ford, who immediately turns pink. Stan can damn near hear him thinking about how this was a mistake but, amazingly, his brother presses on even with Stan looking directly at him, “Anyway, as I was saying…I’ve been thinking and I think, well…seeing as how Preston hasn’t moved in yet and we have the place completely to ourselves I…ah, I thought it’d be nice if we spent a whole day together.”

“What the hell are we doing right now? Spending it apart?” Stan knows he shouldn’t tease his twin, but that’s pretty much impossible. Especially when Ford looks so damned _cute_. His lips are pinching together in the most kissable fashion imaginable as he draws on some inner strength to continue, “You know what I mean! I’m – I’m asking you exactly what you asked me all those months ago! After my mishap at the frat party!”

“You’re asking me out on a date,” Stan says this not as a question so much as a clarification and Ford gives a curt nod, “Yes, but – unlike you, I am being much more candid about it.”

Stan snorts, “How?”

“Well, when you asked me to spend the day with you, you never actually _said_ it was a date!”

“You’re not sayin’ this is a date now,” Stan points out smartly, “In fact, ya ain’t even properly asked me-!”

“Stanley, will you go on a date with me?!” Ford interrupts sharply and while there’s some waspishness behind his tone, Stan can’t help but be touched. He melts a little, “Yeah, Sixer. I’d love to.”

“Oh,” Ford uncoils a great deal, the earlier anxiety and bits of frustration Stan stirred up in him dissipating at this response, “Really?”

Stan nudges him with his whole body, bumping their legs and shoulders, a big grin on his face, “Yeah, ya goof! I’d love to spend the day with you. Go on a date with you….I’d…I’d love it a lot.”

Stan finds his face is hot and he wonders if his skin tone matches Ford’s own blush at this point as Ford breathes, “Alright then! I’ll – I’ll arrange everything! Is this Friday acceptable?”

“Hmm, I’ll have to check my calendar,” Stan jokes and pretends to flip through an invisible day planner. Ford rolls his eyes and nudges Stan back. Stan drops the act with a chuckle, “Yeah, yeah, of course. Friday’s good! ‘S great even! But for now…”

He tosses his controller to one side and gets on his hands and knees, crawling closer to Ford who begins to look skittish at this action, “Wh-what’re you-?”

“Like you said,” Stan plants one kiss on Ford’s forehead, “Fidds is gone,” he kisses his cheek, “Preston ain’t here yet,” he brushes his lips just along Ford’s and Ford whimpers Stan’s name before it becomes a full-fledged kiss. Ford falls back against the couch, Stan easily pinning him to it, notecards spilling everywhere as he breathes, “An’ I’m not waiting ‘till Friday for this…been wantin’ a good make out session with you for _ages_ …”

Ford happily complies, proving yet again that as much as things have changed, they’ve also stayed the same.

 

+

 

Ford has everything planned to the letter.

He’s written up an entire list of fun activities, everything plotted out and perfect. He laid out his clothes for the night before – white undershirt, blue flannel, orange sweater and a brown pull over. Lots of layers, yes, but with his red beanie and khakis it’s a nicely rounded out ensemble.  He’s got it all ready to go.

So naturally it gets ruined.

Turns out all of his plans – every single one of them (save his outfit) – are unexpectedly weather dependent. And it’s not just raining outside – it’s _flooding_. It’s a rampant deluge that can’t be stopped and why, oh why didn’t Ford think to check the forecast? But to be fair – the weather on the west coast is normally more temperate than this. This storm it’s just…crazy.  It completely cancels out the majority of his plans, which primarily took place outside and–in a flash of bright lightning–it takes the electricity as if to punctuate Ford’s failure.

The day’s barely started and Ford already considers it a complete disaster. Stan, completely oblivious to his brother’s woes, is sitting on the couch, lazily strumming his guitar. He’s in his normal attire – white shirt, red flannel and jeans. Ford comes over and with a defeated whimper falls on the cushions face first. Stan barely reacts, “Something wrong, Sixer?’

Ford’s answer is muffled and Stan chuckles. He stops playing long enough to reach out and pat the top of Ford’s beanie, “What was that?”

Ford turns his face to one side so that he can be properly heard, “Don’t you know what today is?”

“Sure I do,” Stan beams, “It’s our date day. That the problem?”

Ford shifts about until he’s sitting up, slouched to one side of the couch, “Of course not! Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Then what-?”

“In case it’s escaped your notice, our powers out and it’s coming down in buckets outside!”

“So?”

“So?” Ford scoffs and he kicks out at the floor, “So, that kind of nixes everything I had planned! We can’t go out, not unless we want to get soaked and with the electricity gone I can’t even come up with some sort of suitable back up plan. Hell, I can’t even make you dinner!”

“Little early for dinner,” Stan remarks lightly but the look on Ford’s face is so despondent he shuts up quick. Ford lets out a grunt of sad air, “It’s just…when you did this for me, it was so fantastic. We had so much fun. And now here I am…completely failing and it’s even worse because, well…”

He chews on his top lip, then the bottom one, “…I didn’t bring you back, Stan. Not really. Preston went to get you and I should’ve…I should’ve been the one to do it. To bring you home. Hell, I shouldn’t have even let you leave in the first place and you’ve done so much for me, been so good to me and I just…I wanted to do something for you. I wanted to show you how much I-!”

Ford’s words end as Stan carefully puts his guitar to one side before swiftly sliding over to Ford. He reaches out and easily turns his head with just a gentle tap of his fingers. Ford looks at him, eyes big and doleful through his glasses, and he can’t help but grin, “That’s some of the most romantic shit I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Warm pink easily floods Ford’s face and Stan eases up, presses his mouth to his twin’s. They exchange a few sweet kisses before Stan pulls away, “Look, we talked about this – I needed some time. I got it. It’s over now. I’m back and we’re better than ever. ‘We’ instead of ‘I’. Always have been, always will be. I don’t need some fancy night on the town, I just need you.”

“Now _that_ is some of the most romantic shit _I’ve_ ever heard,” Ford chuckles and he kisses the tip of Stan’s nose and then his forehead. Stan snuggles a little closer, nudging him, “What did you have planned?”

“Well,” Ford hems and haws, “I mean, I should probably save it for another time right? Really surprise you.”

“Surprise me? Sixer,” Stan says in a way that clearly implies that a surprise is not something Ford can keep from him. His twin cracks, “Okay, fine. I was…I was going to take us out on a sail boat.”

Stan looks appropriately pleased so he continues, “Yeah, I was going to take us sailing and then to a nice dinner and then maybe swing through a nearby tourist trap I heard about. I figured you’d like that.”

“I would’ve,” Stan admits but he looks up into Ford’s eyes and murmurs, “But just being with you…that’s good enough for me. Weather can’t take that from us. So, c’mon, you’re a genius. Use that big ol’ noggin’ of yours. I’m sure you can think of _something_ we can do sans lights and indoors.”

His words have taken on a huskier quality and Ford’s eyes dart from side to side as he thinks. Then he beams like a bulb has illuminated above his head, “I’ve got it!”

Stan is more than prepared for more kissing only to be shocked as Ford twists out of his grip. Now it’s Stan’s turn to fall face first into the cushions as Ford gets to his feet and disappears. He reappears a few moments later with some board games, “We can play these! Just like we did when we were kids! C’mon – there’s still enough light outside to see if we play here by the sliding glass doors.”

The first look Stan shoots Ford is withering, but his brother looks so damned eager he can’t help but let it melt into frustrated amusement. His ‘genius’ twin – the king of missed signals. Stan just shakes his head and gets to his feet, “Fine. Set up Monopoly. I get the top hat.”

They play a round of that game, Stan stroking each fake bill he receives like it’s a cherished pet. He ends up smoking Sixer at it, but then gets completely owned in Scrabble. They lament their inability to play Clue, remembering how Fidds was always masterful at it, before moving on to simple card games, at which they’re fairly even as far as their wins and losses.

They’re in the middle of playing a hand of poker when Stan’s stomach growls audibly. Ford smirks at the sound, “Hungry?”

“Little bit,” Stan chuckles. Ford puts down his cards and lets out a sad sigh, “I had picked out this really great Greek place for us to eat, but now,” he frowns, looking around at the darkening apartment, “I mean, the lights still aren’t up yet. I can’t even make something on the stove or in the microwave.”

“Eh, I’m sure we can scrounge something up,” Stan gets to his feet and they go into the kitchen. They dig out some candles and Stan draws out his lighter, swearing up and down as he uses it that he’s not still smoking, that the lighter is merely a remnant of that era of his life. Ford rolls his eyes at his particular word usage as he digs through the cabinets. Their options are pretty limited – they can have cereal or cold, uncooked soup until Stan reveals that there’s still a loaf of old bread left, no mold present.

They dig out peanut butter and jelly as well as some chips. They get some cooling Pitt cola cans from the fridge before going back into the dining area, eating what Ford considers to be a rather lackluster meal, especially considering this is supposed to a be a date. But he looks surreptitiously at Stan now and again to see his brother seems happy enough.

 He’s also wildly attractive. Since everything happened, Ford hasn’t really had a chance to have a moment like this. A quiet moment where he can just appreciate Stanley, just…look at him. His hair is so long now and he’s getting scruffy, his face carrying a rather hefty five o’clock shadow. Ford wonders how he’d look with a beard and how said beard might feel on his skin. He talked about growing one once; maybe Ford should encourage him…

Then there’s his body. Broad shoulders, broad chest, big arms but that little hint of belly that Ford knows Stan probably hates but Ford just…he loves it. Loves how soft it looks, how it sort of rounds him out perfectly and his skin still has that tanned tint. Ford’s not sure how he’s kept it – maybe some of the shows were out in the sun?

The shows…

Ford loses his appetite a little at the thought and Stan must notice his change in mood, because he asks with a mouthful of sandwich, “U’ m’ kay?”

“Am I okay?” Ford asks and when Stan nods he puts down his sandwich and shrugs, wiping his hands off on one another, “Yes. And no. I was just…I was thinking about the time we spent apart. That’s all.”

Stan swallows thickly, “Toldja – that’s over now. No reason ta think about it.”

“Yes, but we were separated. I don’t know what you got up to, that’s all.”

“Well, what do you want to know?”

Ford shrugs again, not really knowing what to ask – or worse – knowing exactly what to ask and being afraid to. He knows Stan kissed Rick; he was very upfront about that. And obviously Stan is interested in being with him, not Sanchez, because he’s stayed. Still, he understands how being with Rick would be…easier. And while he didn’t spend a lot of time with the musician, Ford recognizes how one could be drawn to him, his overall aura rather magnetic. And Rick’s interest in Stanley was very clear…

“Let me guess – Sanchez?”

Ford blinks and colors, embarrassed to be caught, “I-I suppose. And then, well there’s – there’s Mr. Snakes as well.”

This gets him a snort, “Oh god, I would love to see you call Jimmy, ‘Mr. Snakes’, to his face! Christ!”

Ford gets a little huffy, “Well, it _is_ his surname! Or at least it seems to be!”

Stan’s laughter grows and Ford can’t help but smile a little himself, albeit self-deprecatingly. Stan eyes Ford thoughtfully, “Yeah, well – what about your own paramour? One who, might I add, is moving in with us?”

“Preston is not my-!” Ford sounds so shocked, so scandalized, that Stan’s laughter becomes more erratic, bordering on a giggle fest. Ford crosses his arms, “It’s not _that_ funny, Stanley.”

“Oh, I think it is,” Stan breathes out, voice a little high as he tries to catch his breath. Ford fiddles with his hands, a nervous gesture as he whispers, “My point is…my question is… “

He can’t seem to find the right words and he lets out an aggravated noise as he tries to put words to his worries. Finally he manages, “You have more experience. That’s…that’s all I mean. I mean I don’t…I don’t know what you got up to while you were gone, I don’t know what you got up to in the past and on our last date we, well, we talked about how we don’t know _everything_ about one another and I realized one of the main things I don’t know is, is what you’ve…done. You know…sexually. I mean I know a little bit and obviously you and I have, we’ve…but-but it’s been a while and I don’t…”

The whispered words trail off and the look on Ford’s face tells Stan how serious this is to him. He starts to wonder if maybe Ford _didn’t_ miss the earlier signal he put out. Maybe he’s just…nervous. A well of affection rolls up inside of him at the thought and he gets to his feet. He taps Ford’s shoulder, “Hey, let’s step outside for a bit. Get some fresh air.”

Ford thinks about pointing out how it’s still raining cats and dogs out, but realizes he merely means the balcony and it’s not like the little space isn’t covered. He gets to his feet and follows Stan to the sliding glass doors. The two step out and the sound of falling rain is close to deafening. Still, it’s oddly refreshing out in the open, especially since they are surrounded by so many plants. Ford checks on each carefully, almost afraid to touch them. He’s pretty sure if one of them dies, there’ll be hell to pay and Stan looks at them with a smirk, “It’s like a tiny rainforest out here.”

“Do you want to know all their names.”

“You _named_ them?” Stan grins, “Bet the prince loved that.”

“The-?”

“Preston.”

“Ah. Yes, he did enjoy it.”

“We should think about getting us a pet. Be better to name that then one of these.”

“So…you don’t want to know their names?” It’s asked with this perfect mix of cute and hurt. So much so, that Stan has to bite the inside of one cheek to keep his smile from being too wide, “Aw, go ahead. Know you’re dying to.”

“Okay! So, this one is named Nimoy and this one is Faraday…” Ford points out each plant and name after ridiculous name leaves him. Stan looks at him with bald affection and when Ford’s done he just shakes his head, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Shut up,” Ford returns with humor, shoving him a bit and Stan catches hold of one of his hands, draws him over and kisses him. Ford lets out a muffled sound of surprise but easily sinks into the kiss. Stan’s always wanted this; he can’t even remember how long he’s wanted it. And now he has it. It’s so natural, so easy. He can finally just – just grab Ford and draw him close and kiss him whenever he wants.

Ford angles his head, tongue sliding slickly along the seam of Stan’s lips, dipping deep into his mouth to fully taste him. There’s no longer those lingering traces of smoke, instead there’s nothing but the traces of peanut butter and something else, something purely Stan and Ford hums growing more forceful.

Stan groans at it. Groans because, fuck, Sixer has gotten pretty fucking good at kissing. He wasn’t bad to begin with but now…he backs Stan up against the sliding glass door. His kisses have a fevered intensity, as if it’s just occurred to him that this is something they’re actually doing, like he’s not just imagining it.

The air around them smells so sweet and clean, the pounding of the rain giving way to a gentle patter, so much so that Stan can now hear his heartbeat in his ears, can feel the rush of his blood as Ford’s hands trail all over him, as they start to dive up under his shirt to find bare flesh. Ford groans into his mouth, “Stanley…are you-? Do-do you want to-?”

“Yeah,” Stan returns in a growling rumble, one hand fiddling with the door behind him. He manages to slide it open and they both practically stumble as they move inside, lips still locked. They manage to get to the bedroom easily enough, occasionally tripping over this or that before ending up on the mattress, bodies squeezed close together, hands exploring, mouths searching. Stan finds himself beneath Ford, who’s grinding down against him like a dog in heat. Not that he’s complaining, but he knows they need to push on the brakes a little bit.

He rolls Sixer to one side, gentles his approach, movements growing slower and Ford takes the nonverbal cues, his actions less desperate. They lie next to one another, passing kisses back and forth like whispered secrets until Ford finally draws in a shaky breath, eyes glazed with love and arousal, “Can I…can I tell you something kind of stupid?”

“You can tell me anything.”

Ford doesn’t look at him, eyes closed as he admits, “I’m…scared.”

Immediately Stan’s whole body clenches, dread coursing through him. He wants to ask why but forces himself to be patient, to wait, until finally Ford speaks again, “I’ve never done this before. I mean full on, um… _you know_.”

He says ‘you know’ and Stan can’t help the laugh that escapes, because Ford’s inability to just say ‘sex’ is priceless. But then, maybe Stan should thank the lord for small favors. Ford could call it ‘copulation’ or something else clinical and really kill the mood.

Instead he continues to charmingly bumble along, “And I…I want to-to go all the way with you, but I don’t know if I’ll be any good and you’ve done this before and I’m not-“

His words end via a kiss from Stan, who gasps into one of his ears, “Shh, hey. It’s alright. I’ll take care of ya, Sixer. I’ll protect you. Promise.”

For some reason the words have a lot of weight behind them and Stan knows they’re talking about more than just sex. Especially when Ford utters, “I just…I love you so much, Stanley. Now that I’ve said I can’t…”

Stan kisses him again. He doesn’t need to hear anymore. He doesn’t need anything other than this, other than him and Ford finally crossing the one bridge that rests between them. And Ford’s clutching at him, grabbing his wrists and squeezing and one of them wears the leather cuff Ford bought him. Ford holds that wrist the tightest and Stan can hear the unspoken words: _I’m so glad you’re still wearing this, that you have it, that I gave it to you…_

And Stan returns the sentiment, his lips edging along Ford’s neck, tracing the little necklace chain that leads down to the pendant Stan made for him. An exchange of bits of jewelry – like a marriage between them and Stan’s chest aches with emotion. Despite Ford’s words, neither makes any moves towards going farther than kissing. They’re both still fully clothed, just huddled up against one another, hands ghosting over clothes, gripping one another tightly.

Ford comes up for air, his forehead rubbing against Stan’s, “I’m sorry my date wasn’t as good as yours.”

“What the hell you talking about?”

“Board games? Rain? Sandwiches? Talks about Rick and Preston and looking at plants, it’s nowhere near enough for you. You deserve better. You – you deserve-!”

“What I deserve,” Stan kisses the tip of his nose, “is right here.”

“Huh – didn’t know you could be such a sweet talker.”

“Same goes for you, Poindexter,” Stan returns shyly, “Talkin’ all nice about wanting to give me the best. Sayin’ I deserve it-”

“You do!” Ford cuts in hotly and Stan grins, “I got it though. This date today has been fuckin’ amazing. I loved the games and the sandwiches, the rain and the plants – and as for the talk, well – it had to be done, right? But you wanna talk about something else, we can. You said you wanted to know ‘bout what I got up to, I can tell you. You said you want to hear about Jimmy, I can cover that. You just curious about things about me you might not know, just ask.”

Ford edges closer, brushes his face along Stan’s neck, absorbs his blessed heat because god, he’s been so cold without him. Fire and ice, meeting at last, melting into something warm and new, something sublime. Ford lets out a happy hum, “Just talk to me, Stanley. Just tell me anything.”

“Anything, huh?” he lets out a little thoughtful grumble before offering, “How’s about I been thinkin’ about getting a bike.”

“You _have_ a bike.”

“Not a ten speed. A _real_ bike. A motorcycle.”

Ford draws back so he can show Stan his displeasure, “A motorcycle? Really? I manage to get you to give up one life threatening habit so you take up another?”

“You’re trying to say bikes are as dangerous as cigarettes?”

“No, not exactly but,” Ford exhales and rolls his eyes, “Forget it.”

“You worry about me,” Stan answers for him and Ford nods. Stan kisses him, shrugs, “I worry ‘bout you too. Guess it makes us even.”

“You can…worry a little less,” Ford’s tone is soft, eyes avoiding Stan’s, “I…I’ve made an appointment to-to talk to someone. A professional. About…about Dad and about…”

He doesn’t finish and his face is so anguished Stan can’t stand it. He kisses him again, hugs him tighter, “That’s great, Sixer. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but it’ll be good for you. Y’know…to talk about it.”

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” Ford returns, looking at Stan imploringly, “Not right now.”

“You sure? Sixer…”

“Please, Stanley,” Ford kisses him once, twice, “I’ve missed you so much. I’ve wanted this for so long…”

“Nowhere near as long as me,” Stan grunts against his mouth and their lips lock once more in amorous combat. They toss and turn about the bed, locked together, and eventually Stan finds himself over top of Ford. He loves the feel of his twin beneath him, the differences in their body types more emphasized when they’re pressed together like this. Ford’s just that little bit slighter, muscles not as well developed, skin carrying that chill it can’t seem to get rid of whereas Stan is bigger, more rough and tumble, heat pouring off him in waves.

Ford’s legs and arms are wiry but strong, spidery in their actions as they wrap around Stan, entangling him and his hips – _fuck_ – his hips roll up into Stan’s with gusto as he begs, “Please, Stanley…please…want you in me.”

Stan has to stop, has to suck in a loud breath, because _holy shit_ – _that_ almost made him cum. The words were spoken with such hushed passion that he has to steel himself, has to reign in his wayward nerves because they’re firing away, close to the breaking point already and neither of them is even undressed. He gives a ragged shake of his head, “No.”

“Stanley!” Ford whines his name, thrusts against him again and Stan grits his teeth, “Can’t rush this, Poindexter. ‘S your first time. Gotta go about this just right.”

He gets a disgruntled noise for his efforts but he’s unmoved, “I know, I know – you’re science-y, explorer mind’s all set to just charge ahead, but this isn’t some experiment. Like you said, I got more experience. Trust me on this. I wanna wreck you and you sure as fuck can believe I want you to wreck me. But not this time. This time we go slow.”

“This time?” Ford asks, looking up through his eyelashes, so damned pretty it hurts. Stan kisses him and nods, “This time. Plan on doing this about a million times more, just a head’s up.”

“You won’t…” his twin trails off, looks apprehensive, “You won’t leave again?”

“No,” Stan vows firmly, “Not ever again. Done that, what? Twice now? Bounced when things got rough? There won’t be a third. Most important thing to me is family, most important thing to me is you – just needed some time to figure that out. But you gotta promise the same.”

A laugh rolls out of Ford easily, “Stanley, I’m not going anywhere.”

Now it’s Stan’s turn to be apprehensive, “You could though. Those big brains of yours. Sometimes you get lost in ‘em – you could go almost anywhere.”

“Not without you,” Ford affirms and he captures Stan’s mouth with his own again. The kiss is tender, sweet, and better sets the mood for this, a momentous event. Honestly, part of Stan doesn’t wonder if this isn’t a dream. If he won’t wake up sweaty and tangled in dirty sheets in some hotel room, still on the road with the Flesh Curtains because this? He’s been wanting this forever.

It takes his mind back to his own loss of virginity, back to Carla. He’d thought of Ford then and Jimmy? Well, apparently he thought of Ford during that as well. And now he’s here – _finally_ here – with Ford. There’s no pretending, no secrets, no shame. It’s glorious and he finds himself rocking against Ford himself, mashing them closer together just to relish in the feeling of this heady moment.

Their lips are still locked as his hands skirt up under Ford’s several layers of clothing. He feels smooth skin under his palms and lets out a dreamy sigh between their mouths. Ford shivers and his trembles seem to travel up Stan’s arms, seem to settle into Stan’s whole body because he’s damn near shaking. He wants this to be good, oh god, does he want this to be good. He wants Ford’s first time to be leagues better than his. He wants to take care of him, to shelter him, to make love to him and Stan’s never thought of himself as the poetic type, music career notwithstanding.

But it’s what he wants – to make love to Ford, for Ford to feel his love for him on a deep, intimate level.  To make a connection beyond mental, even beyond physical. Stan’s thoughts are bordering on these vastly profound concepts when Ford starts…giggling. The giggles are stifled; the back of Ford’s left hand going to cover his mouth. Stan notes that his nails are still painted with the blue nail polish Beth used albeit terribly chipped. Between that and the giggles, Stan’s beyond amused, “What’s so funny?”

“N-nothing,” Ford clears his throat and tries to pull a ‘serious’ face, which almost sets Stan to giggling himself. He moves his hands again, fingertips delicately tracing up that much higher and Ford giggles again. Stan’s eyebrows rise, “You ticklish?”

“Not-not normally,” Ford argues, “If I was, you’d have known by now. I would’ve no doubt grown up with you tormenting me via tickles on a regular basis.”

Stan’s bottom lip sticks out, expression thoughtful, “True.”

“I think it’s just…a temporary phenomenon. Probably linked to my nerves. This is…a big day for me.”

“Also true. Finally punching that big ol’ V card,” his brother boasts, “Good to know yer excited about it. Better to know it’s got you feeling ticklish, ‘cause that means…”

Immediately Stan’s fingers start skittering everywhere, motions quick and light, and Ford’s initial curses dissolve into a rapid stream of giggles very quickly. Stan is merciless too, finding every spot he can that’ll make Ford jerk and struggle; make him more hysterical with laughter. Ford tries to fight back, tries to return the same treatment to Stan but Stan’s tickle resistant. Bastard.

The two thrash about the bed, laughing and wrestling with one another. Ford’s shirts are up around his armpits now, bulky and awkward, trapping his arms up and leaving his bare chest splendidly exposed. Stan can see the wispy curls of dark hair, the moles and freckles. Ford’s nipples are taunt, pink little discs that call to his tongue. Unable to resist their siren call, Stan lowers his head first to the left one, outlining it, pressing right on very tip so that Ford’s last giggle breaks off into a surprised, high pitched moan.

Ford chokes out his brother’s name as Stan presses down on his hands, holding him in place while his mouth feasts first on one nipple before wetly trailing over to the other. The giggles have officially died, moans retaking the center stage. Ford squirms beneath Stan’s administration, squirms to free himself from the bindings of his clothing. Stan seems to enjoy Ford’s entrapment, attention focused solely on biting and sucking kisses into Ford’s chest.

A keen of pure desperation leaves Ford, his hips rubbing against Stan’s again because, okay, yes – apparently his chest and nipples are very much an erogenous zone. It’s not like he didn’t know that (scientifically) but knowing something and experiencing it are two very different things. Tickling torture is one thing but this…

Finally taking pity on him, Stan stops his ministrations long enough to help Ford free himself from all his cumbersome shirts. His glasses get knocked askew, as does his beanie, and he carefully removes each, putting them carefully to one side. Stan puts the shirts to one side too, but close enough near the bed that he can grab them quickly, a twinkle in his eyes, “We’ll need these for clean up later.”

“Stanley, that is not becoming some tradition!” Ford argues, remembering very clearly how they used his yellow cardigan to wipe away the traces of their previous sexual encounters. Stan doesn’t look particularly swayed. If anything the grin on his face boasts the contrary. Still, he moves on to other pursuits, running the length of his palms up along Ford’s chest, “Now…where was I? Ah, yes,” he thumbs at both of Ford’s nipples simultaneously and Ford squirms. Stan beams, “I _was_ here, but I think I’ll move on to…”

He angles his head to better latch on to the right side of Ford’s throat. He nuzzles into the juncture between neck and shoulder, mouth intent on making some very nice hickeys. His brother lets out a whine, still sort of wriggling beneath him but his movements are clearly aimed at making Stan’s blood pressure spike, not in wanting to truly pull away. Stan’s focus is laser like, dedicated to marking Ford up on this side and the other. He moves to the left, more than ready to give his brother matching love bites when he notices a tiny dark scab near Ford’s hairline.

The sight makes him frown, “Sixer, what the hell’s this?”

He carefully pokes at the wound. It’s fairly old, pretty much healed completely, and Ford reaches up to touch it, clearly surprised it’s there, “Oh! That! Yeah, thought all those were gone.”

“All?”

Ford starts feasting on his lips, which is always a bad sign, “It…it was several weeks back, Stanley. Guess that one was just a bit, ah, deeper than the others. Like I said, I’m surprised it’s even still-”

“Ford,” Stan’s words cut cleanly through his evasion and Ford breathes in deeply, “Dad.”

As always, the tide of anger rises but this time, this time Stan leashes it. It’s like holding a tiger by the tail, but he holds it, “Pops?”

A wobbly nod, lips still being devoured with nervous teeth, “He was…upset with me. You know about the dinner we went to, Preston and I. Mom was there as well and I…dad and I got into it. About-about lots of things. And he…he grabbed me and sank his fingernails in and they…”

Stan gently brushes his thumb along the old wound and Ford’s eyes close, the soft glistening of tears just barely hidden by his eyelashes, “Honestly, I thought they were all gone.”

Ford hardly ever repeats himself. It’s something he really only does when vastly upset, so Stan melts, kisses him, cuddles him, “‘S alright, it’s alright.”

His twin sags against him and Stan carefully pets his hands all along Ford’s body. Ford opens his eyes and a watery sound leaves him, “You really have changed.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm hmm, you’re…less angry.”

“Oh, I’m still angry,” Stan assures him, “But I guess I got better at controlling it. Wrangling around a kid’ll do that.”

“Beth was good for you.”

“Yup. Hope she’ll be good for Rick too. But we,” Stan levels his gaze with Ford, kisses him, “are getting way off track.”

Ford agrees and they take to kissing one another in earnest. Stan’s hands move towards Ford’s belt, unbuckling it and moving on to the fly of his khakis even as his body starts to trail down. His lips trace a wet, sloppy path along the length of Ford’s body as he tugs and pulls, Ford’s pants disappearing right alongside his socks. Ford rolls his eyes, “I see I’m the first to be divested of all my clothing. Again.”

“What can I say? I like ya better nude,” Stan affirms with a cocky grin. He is still fully clad and he presses his clothed body against Ford’s as he kisses him, hugs him close. Ford tries to keep him in this position but Stan’s not to be swayed, easing up to his knees so he can reach down and run one hand along Ford’s full member.

He takes his flush erection, pumps it once and a mewl escapes Ford’s throat, his eyes glazed with arousal, “Stanley…”

“Like that?”

“Yes,” he pants and Stan growls, “Oh yeah, love hearing that…say it again.”

“Yes?” Ford asks and as if to confirm this is what Stan wanted to hear, his brother strokes him again. Ford arches his back, fingers clutching at the pillow beneath his head as he moans louder, “Yes! Ohhhhh, _yessss_!”

There’s already a collection of pearly precome collecting at the velvety head of Ford’s dick and Stan lifts his hand up, licks the palm and then gathers that up, making his hand relatively moist as he lovingly jacks his brother’s length. Broken squeals of pleasure leave Ford at this, hips canting up into each movement and Stan feels like a pro, like he’s as gifted playing Ford as his guitar when his brother starts shaking his head, gasping, “Stan, no, wait.”

Immediately Stan stops, worried he’s done something wrong but Ford quickly assuages his fears, “This…this was supposed to be about you. This is my date with you.”

“Yer point?”

“I-I should be the one giving you this, giving you pleasure.”

“Pleasing you does pleasure me,” Stan argues and he reaches down, clutches his own aroused dick, giving it a careful squeeze, “Trust me.”

Ford still looks unsatisfied and Stan feels another wave of fondness, “You…you really want to make this good for me, don’t you? You’re really that concerned about-?”

Stan’s words trail off as Ford sits up, cups his face in his hands, “You deserve it, Stanley. You deserve anything you want, anything I can give you.”

Never in a million years will Stan admit aloud how full of emotions his chest is right now. How he feels close to bursting with-with love. He’s never felt so loved. He feels stupid with it. He feels like he should think this is corny or dumb…but he doesn’t. He just feels…moved. Treasured. So, he kisses Ford to try and put a stopper on the wellspring building within him. Ford easily kisses back and, in a way, Stan just marvels over that.

Their kisses have been so easy. All of this has been so easy and light. Perfect. He draws back and hopes his face doesn’t look too dopey as he mumbles, “Guess I’m okay with that. Was planning on being on the bottom anyway.”

“Bottom?” Ford asks with such innocence that Stan can’t help but let out a legitimate guffaw. Not a laugh, because a laugh would have probably sounded more polite. This is a straight up belly laugh, “The bottom, Ford. You on top. You inside of me.”

Ford wavers slightly. If he’d been standing, he probably would have collapsed, “Y-you-! You-you want-want me to-to-!”

“It’ll be easier,” Stan explains, “Fer your first time…”

“I-I-I don’t-don’t know if I can-can-!” the words are coming out of Ford as if he’s being shaken and Stan gives him several kisses to calm him down before whispering, “You can. I’ll talk you through it. It’s gonna be fine.”

While the kisses did help to steady Ford, he still doesn’t look very convinced. Stan remembers something and grows giddy, “Hey, just remembered something! Wait here!”

Stan gets up from the bed and Ford watches with confusion as his brother goes to their closet. He tosses things this way and that before emerging with a plastic case that he holds up, looking prideful, “Check this out!”

It’s a first aid kit but it’s been altered. VERY altered. Mainly because while it still has the word ‘First’ in big, red blocky letters and a bright ‘+’ sign the word ‘Aid’ has been covered with brown duct tape and, on the duct tape in big, black blocky letters someone’s written ‘Sex’. Ford’s incredulous, “‘First Sex’ Kit?”

“Made this for you! Figured we might…y’know. Need it.”

Ford rubs at his eyes, “God, Stanley…where did you even-?”

“Work.”

Ford’s hands leave his eyes so they can widen to appropriate dinner plate size, “You stole the first aid kit from work?!”

“Now, now – that’s not what it is anymore. It’s a first sex kit now.”

“Stanley!” Ford cries, horrified at the prospects of the Press Room minus its first aid kit, but Stan doesn’t seem swayed, “Don’t worry – left all the band aids and other stuff in a brown paper bag there, so, mean…the shop still has alla that crap. But I needed the box. Wanna see what’s in it?”

Before Ford can answer Stan’s bouncing back onto the bed, making the mattress jump a little under his weight and enthusiasm. He opens the kit and inside is a large bottle of lube, some condoms, and a device that makes Ford turn bright scarlet, “Wh-what is-?”

“Oh, that,” Stan picks up the smooth silicone toy with the flared base, “That’s – ah – that’s actually for your advanced studies. Probably when I’ll block out the ‘first’ part of this box and it’ll just be a sex kit. But, mean, it’s a good place to store it,” this is said with devilish glee but at Ford’s alarmed look he continues soothingly, “But don’t worry about this lil’ guy for now, Sixer. For now, we’ll just need the basics.”

He takes out the lube and one condom, then, rethinking it, he takes out a second one. He’s eyeing a third when he notices that Ford’s so bright red now that he can probably be seen from space. He settles on the two condoms and even makes sure to carefully tuck the second beneath some nearby piles of old clothes. He pushes the kit to one side as well and makes sure the lube and condom are within easy reach.

Just as he’s about to reach for Ford and reassure him, he notes how the entire room has grown darker, shadows settling in. The weather outside is still grim and for some godforsaken reason, the power has yet to return. Deciding that this isn’t something he wants to take place in deep darkness, he rises up again, “Give me a sec.”

He throws open the blinds, allowing what little daylight that is outside to filter in. Ford looks like he wants to object but knows there’s no point to it. After all, what does it matter if the blinds are open? No one’s going to catch sight of them on the seventh floor. Stan goes out to the dining room and comes back with some candles. He places them in strategic safe places and then, chuckling to himself, goes to the kit again.

He draws out a slim CD case and Ford eyes it suspiciously, especially when Stan disappears out of the room again. Soon enough soft music takes the air and Stan returns to lean in the doorway, looking crafty, “You like?”

“Stanley, what on earth-?”

“Playing it from the Xbox. Made you a ‘losing it’ mix.”

“You can’t be serious,” Ford deadpans even though he knows that yes, Stanley is serious. The music floods in gently and Stan returns to the bed, looking unbearably smug. The door to their bedroom is still open and Ford eyes it uncomfortably. Stan kisses the top of his head, “We don’t need to lock ourselves away. Not anymore.”

“You’ve really usurped my date…made it your own. Made it better,” Ford grumbles but not with much heat. Stan just smiles, “I didn’t usouping nothin’, Poindexter. I’m just makin’ sure we go about this just right. Candles, music – real romantic like. Loads better than my first time.”

Ford shrugs, “Maybe you can pretend this is your first time.”

“Oh, but it _is_ my first,” Stan confesses, “First time doing this with somebody I’m in love with. You ever think this isn’t just for you? I deserve some class.”

“That you do,” Ford affirms and Stan starts tugging his flannel off, “Now pay attention - I’m the teacher, you’re the student.”

“I’m not going to learn much of anything if you’re too hands on,” Ford protests, reaching out to stall Stan from removing his clothing, “Let me.”

Stan drags in a shaky breath and nods, letting Ford carefully strip him of his flannel and the shirt beneath. Ford’s fingers go to Stan’s hair tie and Stan’s fingers join his own, helping to carefully undo it. Stan’s hair falls in waves and Ford feels his breath bottle in his throat, “Gorgeous.”

“Nah,” Stan argues, swallowing thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing at the adoring look in Ford’s eyes.  His chest constricts as Ford’s fingers comb through his long hair, as they tangle and tug and god, the little tugs go straight to his balls. He reaches down and cups himself, gives a squeeze, and fuck, he doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard. His body aches all over, the desire for this almost painful. Ford tugs on his hair again, just enough to bring Stan forward so their mouths can meet.

They lose themselves in kissing again, the air filled with the light stirrings of music and the sweet, intimate sounds of their lips locking and unlocking, tongues gently playing against one another, tasting and teasing. While Ford may be inexperienced, he clearly knows some things instinctively. Like how to maneuver Stan beneath him. Stan cherishes the feeling of Ford’s slight body over his, Ford’s bare chest brushing his own.

Ford has him well and truly pinned, his hands soaring down Stan’s arms, finding his fingers and interlinking them together and raising them up, pressing them down over top of his head. Ford, for his part, is oddly starting to feel a little more comfortable in this position of authority. He likes the idea of being a conqueror, of perhaps taking Stan somewhere no one else has.

Yes, Stan’s had sex before but surely this is different. This is with Ford, so it must mean more…right? Ford wants to ask but finds himself a little too self-conscious to. Instead he decides to do the best he can, to _be_ the best he can. While most of the date did not go as he had planned, there is one part of it that can go off without a hitch.

He’d theorized the day might end in act of a, ah, carnal nature. As such, he did do some…study. This in mind, he focuses one hand on holding Stan’s arms upright, the other descending down to Stan’s jeans. He unbuttons and unzips them, carefully tugging the material away, both bottoms and underwear. Stan helps, sort of kicking out, legs and feet helping to peel everything off. Once Stan is completely naked, he presses a kiss to Stan’s lips and finally releases his hands, “You can keep those up there, if you like…”

“If I like?” Stan questions and Ford just gives him a smirk as he starts kissing a path downwards, breath whispering along his bare flesh, “Might end up grabbing my hair though.”

“Your-?” Stan starts asking but then a hiss escapes him as Ford’s mouth eagerly engulfs his length. He curses, his fingers clawing above him and then, yes, diving into Ford’s fluffy strands. Stan groans, shocked because, okay, Sixer tried to give him a blowjob a while back and it was…very uncoordinated. Now? Now it’s like he’s a goddamn expert. His head bobs up and down with smooth grace, throat working, tongue laving at every thick vein and he’s – Christ – he‘s _swallowing_ him.

A series of intelligible noises escape Stan and he feels his balls constrict that much more because he’s pretty sure the very tip of his cock just brushed the back of Ford’s throat. Good god, he’s being deep throated. By Stanford of all people and Stan cries out, fingers’ tightening because he’s going to lose it if this keeps up. His fingers tug at Ford’s hair hard as he fights off his orgasm, “F-ford! FORD! _Fuck_! Ford, don’t-! _I want_ -! I want to-!”

Somehow Ford seems to know. He draws himself off and Stan just looks at him, stunned, “Where-?”

“I’ve been practicing,” Ford confesses, looking pleased.

“On?”

“Well, this might surprise you but there are a variety of phallic shaped object in which-”

“Okay, stop, stop,” Stan gasps, “You’ll kill the mood.”

“Would you like me to go back to-?” Ford’s mouth hovers over Stan’s straining dick again, tongue playing with the slit, dipping in and out and Stan groans, eyes rolling up, hands rubbing at his face, “No, no. Don’t want ta do it like that. Told you. We’re going all the way. Meaning…”

Stan carefully extracts himself from Ford’s grip and turns himself around. He presses his front against the mattress and the feeling on his dick…lord; the pressure makes him want to hump the shit out of the mattress, but he’ll be damned if he does that. Instead he rises to his hands and knees, looking over his shoulder at Ford, “Grab the lube, Stanford. You’ve done this part before.”

Ford has, but he looks sort of harried by the idea of what’s before him. Stan almost wants to tease him further, shake his ass in his brother’s face or something, but he knows better. Ford frowns, “Is-is this really the best, uh…position for-?”

“It’s a classic,” Stan confirms, “Problem?”

“No, just….I’d like to look down into your face when I…” Ford’s words dry up as if he can’t speak more. Stan sits up just enough so he can turn his head and capture Ford’s mouth. He gives him a soft kiss, “You’re really out to flatter me to death, huh?”

His answer is a look of confusion and Stan expounds, “Wanting to look down into this ugly mug while you-”

“You’re not ugly,” Ford interrupts firmly and kisses him again, “Far from it.”

Stan valiantly tries to ignore how his cheeks burn at the remark, “Fair enough but they’ll be plenty of other times to try it other ways. Trust me; I’m all about trying out every position with you imaginable. But for now, we’ll stick with this,” he returns to his hands and knees, whispering gruffly, “C’mon, Sixer. It’ll be okay. Just like last time, huh?”

“Like last time,” Ford repeats as if to comfort himself and now, instead of looking intimidated, Ford’s looking at Stan’s ass as if he wants to bite it. Frankly, Stan would love that and his mind flashes to the heated vision of Ford rimming him, Ford’s quick and clever tongue eating him out. His hands curl into fists because goddammit! He has to stop almost bringing himself to an inadvertent (and untimely) orgasm.

For his part, Ford’s grabbed the lube and Stan can hear the familiar sound of the cap popping open. To distract both himself and Ford, Stan inhales, “Okay, so…just get your fingers wet as possible and put one in at a time, remember?”

“I do.”

“Good  – just do that, nice and slow. That’ll prep me right.”

A heated whimper is drawn unbidden from Ford’s lips as he follows the instructions. Stan looks over his shoulder again and catches sight of six fingers glistening, six fingers ready to penetrate him and he knows he told Ford one at a time but the idea of all six...

He shudders at the idea of it and waits with bated breath, body tense in anticipation. He’s rewarded with the gentle feel of Ford’s damp fingers carefully tracing the curve of his ass. A gurgling sound of ecstasy leaves Stan as the fingers carefully part his cheeks and start rubbing up and down the tender skin therein.

The feeling is exquisite and Stan’s head dips, body bowing backwards, moving back into the touch. Fuck, it’s been too long. Too long since someone’s done this, since he’s done it to himself, and this is _Ford_ doing it. It was so hot the first time Ford did it and now…

 One finger eases inside and it’s just like Stan remembers – possibly better. God, how had he not catalogued the exact length and feel of Ford’s fingers? He knows he sure as shit will now. They’re so slender and smooth and this first one is sliding in deep, sliding in true. This first finger works in and out with perfect rhythm and Ford’s moaning along with it, moaning on each thrust, as if he’s the one being fucked.

“Stanley…can you-? Will you-? Jesus, just…please…let me watch.”

“W-watch?”

“Watch you fuck yourself on my fingers…on my hand…”

“ _FORD_!” Stan cries and has to still himself YET again because, dear god! Why does his brother keep trying to trigger him into cumming asap?! Once he’s sure he won’t, he does as requested, moving back against the intrusion earnestly and he nearly swallows his tongue when the second finger enters. Ford’s doing a fan-fucking-tastic job making him looser. Even more so because he’s so carefully, carefully scissoring his way in deeper, easing up higher.

Stan’s sweating bullets now, his whole being tight because Ford’s close to his prostate, but not close enough. He keeps flicking it, the barest hint of touches. It’s like he’s trying to strike a match, but it’s not catching fire. Stan’s feels close to his breaking point. He’s never wanted this so badly in all his life and he realizes he’s babbling as much when Ford’s fingers draw back. They exit, leaving him bereft but not for long because Ford’s voice trembles, “Think…think one more…”

Three fingers start working in and out and Stan stifles his groans by feasting on his bottom lip. Three, fuck, _three_! He’s had three before but this is three of Ford’s six fingers and there’s a wonderful stretch, that burn, and he gasps, “Another.”

“Stanley, no…”

“Yeah, c’mon,” he coaxes, body surging against the intrusion, “I can take it. Ford, _please_.”

It’s probably the desperate ‘please’ that pushes Ford, nothing but vowels leaving him as he does as asked. Four fingers. Stan wails as he moves against the larger insertion. It’s good. It’s really fucking good, but it’s not exactly what he needs and before he can even ask he feels the fingers retreat.

He hears the classic sound of a condom wrapper being opened. It takes Ford a few minutes and Stan waits: body damp with perspiration, with anticipation. He wonders if he should offer to help Sixer get the condom on when he feels shaky hands on his hips.

Stan can feel a velvety hot pressure against his hole, a blessedly firm cock, and he’s more than ready to impale himself on it. But he knows Ford needs the guidance, so he slurs, “That’s it…come on. Slide right in…I’m ready…”

Ford carefully presses himself inside, tortured hisses escaping him, “ _Ohhhh_ , Stanley, _Stanley_! You’re- you’re so tight! So _tight_ , I, _ah_! I can’t-! I don’t think-!”

“‘S alright, ‘s alright…easy…j-just-!”

It’s hard to speak. There are no words, only actions. It’s a primitive moment, a natural mating, as their minds seem to connect on an almost psychic level. Ford keeps pushing and Stan keeps taking and then Stan’s body just seems to let it happen, to give in and relax, and the sound that bursts out of Ford is damn near sinful, “ _Jesus_ Chr-! You-you just…just _opened_.”

Stan can only nod and groan because yes, his body’s given way and Ford’s bottomed out. He’s fully seated now, hips flush to Stan’s ass and Ford’s draped perfectly over his back. Ford’s hands reach out, find Stan’s wrists and pins them as his hips stutter. His movements are awkward, unschooled, but Stan meets him, husking, “Okay, _uhhh_ … _ahhh_ , jus’…gently. _Gently_.”

“God,” Ford sounds earnest in the prayer as he holds firmer to Stan, as he starts moving with better precision. His mouth sets on Stan’s back shoulder, covering his tattoo – he licks and bites it tenderly as he begins rolling his hips arduously against Stan’s plush backside. Stan can feel his twin, rooted so thickly, so deeply within him. When was the last time he was this full? When was the last time it felt this good?

Scratch that, it’s _never_ felt this good. _Ford_ is inside him, Ford is fucking him and he wants to weep. He wants to shout, ‘At last! At last!’ Instead he pants, “Sixer, please… _please_ …more. Give me-!”

The end is cut off with a more forceful pant as Ford starts doing as Stan asks. He picks up the pace, moving with more finesse. He seems to find his stride, his cock driving up higher, thrusts less shallow and a startled cry leaves Stan as Ford finally makes contact with his prostate. This isn’t like what he’d been doing with his fingers, this is more spot on and Stan sucks in air, clutches at the pillows and blankets beneath him, begging, “ _Yes_! Yes, Stanford – please, _please_ , do that again, _do it again, do it_ -!”

His frantic rambles melt into hefty groans as Ford takes the command and takes it beautifully. The mattress lightly squeaks beneath them, nothing intense, but certainly underlining their passion as Ford seems to gain confidence in his skills. His hands bury themselves into Stan’s long locks, turning and twisting, knotting in his hair and tipping his head back just so. Stan feels a tiny twinge in his scalp and loves it, loves how Ford’s conquering him.

An unbelievable amount of sound surrounds them –  the storm outside, the music, their breathing, their groans. Stan’s amazed he hasn’t climaxed yet. Maybe staving it off so many times earlier has proven to be a hindrance. He’s positive he’ll lose his mind if he doesn’t cum soon. However, it’s obvious Ford’s going to beat him, because Ford’s practically sobbing, his limits clearly reached.

With one last particularly deep thrust, Stan feels a deep seated pulse and Ford clutches him in a death grip, crying out as he falls over the edge. Stan glories in Ford’s release, but wishes he could reach his own. He feels desperate, needful, and Ford’s sweating, collapsed over him as he whispers brokenly, “ _Ahhh ah-huh_ …oh, no… _noooo_ , came…’fore you…”

“Don’t need…cum first. But…god, need... _need to_! _Stanford_!” Stan can barely speak the words. He feels like he’s being denied, like he’s being held back. One of Ford’s hands reach around and takes hold of his aching length, stroking it like Stan taught him so long ago. He gently squeezes while he pushes his palm upwards, his fingertips stroking the head, thumb brushing over the leaking slit and this is what finally knocks Stan over.

Ford’s name escapes Stan in a throttled roar, his release shooting all over the sheets and his hips grind downward and yes, he gives in to fucking the mattress, but he doesn’t care because he needs the pressure and Ford’s hand is trapped on his dick but he doesn’t care, _doesn’t care, doesn’t_ -!

It’s a long while before Stan’s mind fully returns to him. Ford’s hand is still squished under him, Ford’s body blanketing his, Ford’s face buried in his hair. There’s a good amount of wet beneath Stan and he grumbles. Ford slowly withdraws himself from Stan’s body and the two move this way and that until they are rearranged and in one another’s arms again. There are no words, no actions, nothing. For all that came before, now there’s nothing but a warm, companionable silence.

A silence in which they hold one another and marvel over how far they’ve come.

 

+

 

The lights have long since returned, but Ford and Stan have hardly left their bedroom. They did indeed end up using the second condom and even dug out the third. Ford’s clothes did not escape being stained, although they do end up taking a shower after all is said and done. They’re in bed now, both shirtless but wearing bottoms, their shoulders brushing as they snuggle up against one another.

Stan grabbed his guitar from the living room and is lazily strumming it again, his notepad to one side. He stops occasionally, looking thoughtful as he jots down a lyric before going back to his instrument. Ford, for his part, is nose deep in a theoretical physics textbook. It’s a nice, companionable moment.

The rain has finally stopped, the candles blown out, and Stan tosses the occasional sideways glance at his twin. Ford must feel his gaze, because he stops to raise his eyebrows at him, “What?”

“Nothing,” Stan returns, but at Ford’s disbelieving look he admits, “Wondering if you feel any different now. Seeing as you’ve lost your virginity.”

Ford shrugs and blushes, “N-not really. I-I mean, well…uh, considering your, um, positions - I would think if anyone felt anything, it’d be you.”

“What? ‘Cause it was my ass getting-?” Stan’s words end on a laugh, because Ford looks livid. He’s wildly gesticulating, his motions pleading with Stan to stop and Stan picks up from the laugh with a head shake, “You forget? I’ve done it before. You might’ve been a little, ah, exuberant at different intervals but overall? It was a blast. Didn’t you pick that up from all the ‘yes, yes, please, god, more, more, more’s’ I was spouting off?”

“Maybe,” Ford whispers, the blush growing to tint the tips of his ears. Stan chuckles again and notes with some pleasure that light hickeys are beginning to form on Ford’s skin. He can’t wait until his brother notices. They took that shower together earlier, but his twin must not have caught his reflection. Man, when Ford sees those marks…

Stan grins and strums the strings with a little more vigor. Ford sits up and takes a sip of the espresso he made. Stan eyes his own cup of coffee. What they make at home is nothing compared to what they make at the shop, but it’s nice to have something warm and caffeinated. He takes a gulp from his own mug when he catches sight of that telltale scar on Ford’s back. He licks his lips and wants to touch it, wants to wipe it away.

But he knows that’s not within his power. That mark is not something he can physically change. But emotionally? Emotionally he likes to think he’s helping Ford, bringing him that much closer to healing. God knows Ford’s doing that for him and he clears his throat, feeling slightly jittery as he says, “Hey, uh, I wanna run something by you.”

Ford puts aside his drink and his book, turning his full attention to Stan, “Yeah?”

“Remember that song I wrote a while back? ‘Far From Me’?”

“Yes,” Ford mummers, then asks, “That-that was about me…right?”

“Hell, Sixer, about more than half of my songs are about you,” Stan affirms, “It was Preston’s noticing it in the first place that’s brought us to this point. Preston. Christ, can’t believe that shithead’s gonna live with us…”

“Stanley…” Ford starts but Stan waves him off, “Alright, Alright. I don’t want to get into that again. But, y’know, just want it stated for the record that I think it’s a bad idea. You don’t see me inviting Rick to live with us.”

“Ha! Like he would,” Ford scoffs, “I don’t think it’s possible for Sanchez to stand still long enough.”

“Fair point. But we’re getting off topic – the song. You remember it?”

“I told you I did.”

“Okay, well,” Stan sits up, “It –it was a total piece of crap. Bad lyrics, bad melody…”

“Hey!” Ford interjects, hurt, “I _liked_ that song!”

“Well, I didn’t, is what I’m saying,” Stan sighs with some annoyance, but picks up in a lighter tone, “And what I’m _also_ trying to say; is that that song was about us being unrequited. Me wanting you, but never thinking it’s gonna happen. But now, um, since we _are_ together I’ve…I’ve been tinkering with a new song. A better one. One that’s about you and me, ‘bout us.”

Ford looks pleased, “Oh?”

Stan nods, “And more than just that even. It’s about ALL of us. Fidds, Susan, Shandra, Rick…hell, even Preston.”

“Really?”

Stan nods and fiddles with his guitar nervously, “Would…would you like to hear it?”

“Yes,” Ford says softly, nodding to drive his point home. Stan gives him a big grin, “Okay, but first a joke…”

Ford lets out a pained moan and rubs at his temples as Stan just gives him the biggest, cheesiest smile, “Two antennas met on a roof and fell in love; they decided to get married and guess what?”

The last thing Ford wants is to guess ‘what’ but he finds himself unable to resist, “What?”

“The ceremony wasn’t much, but the reception was excellent.”

The joke is unbelievably stupid, but Ford finds himself laughing anyway. Stan looks over the moon and then clears his throat, “So, without further ado…”

Stan starts playing the guitar, the notes enchanting. Ford watches him, hearts in his eyes as Stan sings soft and low, sweet and sincere. The song is…amazing. To be honest, Ford finds it unbelievably catchy and, what’s more, unbelievably touching. His eyes heat up at different chords, different lyrics and he fights off tears, fights off silly smiles and just tries to be an attentive audience.

Once the song is done, he can’t help but applaud and Stan hugs his guitar close, “So…good?”

“Great. What’s it called?”

“Coffee Stains and Cigarettes.”

“Hmm, good title,” Ford breathes and he raises one finger, beckoning Stan over, “C’mere…”

Carefully Stan puts his guitar to one side and does as Ford bids. Their lips meet in a flawless kiss, their arms wrapping around one another and while neither will ever say it aloud, they both know the best song is the one they share together.

 

**THE END**


End file.
